


Anchor

by exyking



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Australian AU, Blow Jobs, Camping, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Road Trips, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-09-18 09:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16992240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exyking/pseuds/exyking
Summary: Auguste doesn’t know what to say, is too wary of saying the wrong thing to try, and Laurent doesn’t seem to be any more eager. It should be awkward, but somehow it isn’t. Nor is it comfortable, however. They always seem to exist on this weird in between.They have six weeks ahead of them like this. It’s the same thing every time Auguste comes home, worse, really, since Laurent moved away for university. It seems impossible that suddenly they have nothing to talk about. That they have no things left in common. They had shared everything, once. They had been inseparable.The person sitting beside him now feels like a stranger.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Anchor by Novo Amor, a song I listened to a lot while writing this, and which I definitely recommend you check out while reading ;)
> 
> Please note the tags! 
> 
> AND PLEASE ENJOY THE AMAZING ART BY CHUISLANE, WHO I LOVE WITH MY WHOLE HEART

 

 

 

* * *

Auguste is woken, rather abruptly, by the sensation of frigid water being poured on his face. He thrashes out, still half asleep, kicking his sheets into a tangle as he tries to get away.

“What the _fuck,”_ he shouts, voice cracking with sleep. He shields his face with his hands, though the water just splashes off and wets the bed around him, turning it into a cold, sodden mess.

As the last of the water dribbles onto the sheets, he hears a voice say, “Oh, I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

Auguste freezes. “ _Shit.”_

He shoves himself up, head spinning at the sudden return to vertical, pushing wet hair out of his eyes as he fishes for his phone in his sheets. He wipes a smear of moisture off the screen as he turns it on. It reads Eleven o’clock.

“ _Fuck.”_

Laurent sets the now empty glass down on Auguste’s bedside table. He says nothing.

“Fuck, Laurent.” Dizziness finally catches up with him, nausea flaring up in his gut. “I’m… _fuck_.” He covers his face with his hands, fingers rubbing sleep from the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He thinks he hears Laurent scoff, though the sound is so faint he can’t be sure. It cuts through him viciously all the same. In his periphery, he sees Laurent shrug and, without another word, his little brother turns away.

Auguste pushes his sheets off before he can think and reaches out to grab Laurent’s arm, hand closing around soft, pale skin and holding on tight. “Laurent, I’m _sorry_.”

Laurent looks back at him, his expression unreadable. There’s a flash in his eyes, maybe indignance, Auguste thinks. It’s not as though Laurent has ever readily welcomed impositions on his person. Still, he says nothing, _does_ nothing, for so long Auguste feels his cheeks start to heat. And yet, he can’t let go.

Eventually, Laurent’s eyes drop to Auguste’s hand, closed around his forearm, so thin in comparison to Auguste that it looks almost delicate, though Laurent is anything but. Auguste’s fingertips wrap all the way around, meeting neatly on the other side. Laurent’s expression is utterly unreadable.

Auguste dares to hope, for a moment, that Laurent might soften. That he might let Auguste draw him closer, perhaps even allow an embrace. It strikes Auguste then, how badly he wants that. How much he has missed his brother.

When Laurent meets Auguste’s eyes again, he shrugs Auguste’s hand off, stepping out of reaching distance. Clutching nothing but air, Auguste’s hand feels cold.

“Don’t worry about it,” Laurent says. “Mother was happy to pick me up.”

Auguste winces, turning away. “She should have woken me,” he says. “I would have--”

“Not driven anywhere,” Laurent interrupts, “With a hangover like that.”

Auguste blinks, frowning in protest, “I’m not--”

“Please,” Laurent turns away. “You’re a shitty liar, brother.”

Laurent walks out of the bedroom, kicking Auguste’s discarded clothes out of the way as he does, and Auguste lets him go. He disappears into the hallway, and Auguste hears him moving around in the kitchen, the sound of the kettle turning on a couple of moments later.

Auguste swings his legs over the side of the bed, briefly taking a moment to bury his face in his hands and feel the full weight of not only the truly horrendous hangover currently pounding behind his eyes, but the frankly nauseating guilt of having, quite literally, forgotten about his brother.

He needs to fix this.

He forces himself to his feet and finds the nearest, cleanest pair of sweats, forcing down the bile that rises in his throat when he bends over to put them on. He doesn’t waste time looking for a shirt, the nearest ones are all beer-stained and rank.

He makes his way out into the hallway and down to the kitchen. He finds Laurent there, facing away from him, standing over two mugs on the kitchen bench, hands braced on the counter in front of him.

The house is quiet, not even the sounds of the maids going about their usual business disturb the silence. Their parents must be out. Auguste sighs in relief.

Subtly, Auguste takes a moment to study his brother while his back is turned. Laurent looks… well. Healthy. From what Auguste can see, at least. His hair is longer than it had been when he’d left, and perhaps a touch lighter, now the colour of whipped butter. He has it tied back in a neat little braid, a style that Auguste imagines their mother has taught him. His skin, always so pale, seems perhaps a shade tanner than usual, his forearms lightly freckled where he’s pushed up the sleeves of his sweater.

Auguste takes a moment to be glad for that. He’s been worried that Laurent would coop himself up indoors, away at uni for all those months.

Auguste walks over, coming to a stop beside Laurent, not quite looking at him, and not quite looking away.

“You look good,” he says. He sees Laurent raise an eyebrow out of the corner of his eye. “I mean…”

“I know what you mean.”

The kettle finishes boiling, clicking loudly to a stop. The sound makes Auguste flinch.

Laurent pours the hot water into the two mugs he’s set out. The smell of instant coffee wafts up from one, black tea from the other.

“Sugar?” Laurent asks.

“Please,” Auguste mumbles. “Just the one.”

Laurent chuckles, under his breath. He measures out a teaspoon of raw sugar from the pot by the kettle. “I remember when you used to have it with three.”

Auguste smiles. He takes the coffee from Laurent as he passes it over, holding the warm mug in his hands. “I bought you Almond milk,” Auguste says, smirking over the rim of his mug, “I remember how much of a snob you are about that stuff. I’m sure mum forgot.”

Laurent dunks his teabag a couple of times in the steaming water. “I don’t have it with milk anymore.”

There is a painfully long moment before Auguste says, “Oh.”

Laurent’s eyes flick to him, briefly, before he goes to sit on the barstool by the kitchen counter. Auguste makes to join him, though as he does he catches Laurent giving him a once over with a raised eyebrow that reminds him that he’s not exactly dressed.

He hadn’t thought to be self-conscious around his brother. Now, he feels practically naked.

He’d left his jumper out over the barstool when he stumbled back in during the small hours of that morning. It smells only faintly of beer and cigarettes, so he pulls it on, zipping it up halfway. Laurent’s gaze remains firmly fixed on the teabag he is lazily dunking in and out of his cup.

Auguste sits, winding his calf around the leg of the barstool. He blows on his coffee before sipping it, too quickly, evidently, as he burns his mouth. He curses loudly, sucking on his tongue and setting his mug down. His mother would have a heart attack if she saw him put it on the bare counter without a coaster.

Laurent smirks at him.

Despite the pain in his mouth, Auguste smiles back, chuckling as he wipes at his lips.

They sit in silence for a while. Auguste struggles to find something to say, half terrified that it’ll be the wrong thing.

“How was uni?” He eventually asks him.

“It was fine,” Laurent says. “I go to classes, I go home and I study. Same old.”

It’s a lie, or at least not the whole truth. It stings, to know that Laurent doesn’t trust him with that anymore.

Forcing a smile, Auguste says, “You should go out more.” He elbows Laurent’s side, a familiar gesture among brothers who no longer are. “You’re too young to be so old. Go to some parties, get drunk, live a little.” He smirks, conspiratorially. “You never know, you might meet a hot guy.”

Laurent shrugs. “I guess I’m just not like you,” he says.

Something in Auguste’s chest aches.

They sit in silence for the rest of the time it takes to finish their drinks. Auguste doesn’t know what to say, is too wary of saying the wrong thing to try, and Laurent doesn’t seem to be any more eager. It should be awkward, but somehow it isn’t. Nor is it comfortable, however. They always seem to exist on this weird in between.

They have six weeks ahead of them like this. It’s the same thing every time Auguste comes home, worse, really, since Laurent moved away for university. It seems impossible that suddenly they have nothing to talk about. That they have no things left in common. They had shared everything, once. They had been inseparable.

The person sitting beside him now feels like a stranger.

“What are you doing for the rest of the day?” Auguste asks as they walk their empty mugs over to the sink. “Do you want to go out somewhere? I can drive.”

“I’m meeting mother and father for lunch,” Laurent says. “But…”

Laurent cuts himself off, trailing into silence.

“Yeah?” Auguste prompts.

“Maybe tomorrow?”

There is a tone of hopefulness in Laurent’s voice that makes something warm blossom in Auguste’s chest. That his brother might be eager to spend time with him, especially after Auguste had stranded him this morning, hadn’t occurred to him. He hadn’t dared to hope.

“Of fucking course, little brother,” Auguste says. He steps in closer, reaching out to Laurent and pulling him in for a hug. Laurent is shocked still, for a moment, but he doesn’t push Auguste away. He lets Auguste wrap his arms around his waist and hold him tight. Eventually, his own arms fold around Auguste’s shoulders. Auguste can’t help but hold him tighter, for that.

“It’s good to see you, Laurent,” Auguste murmurs into his hair. “I’ve missed you.”

He thinks he feels Laurent squeeze him tighter, as he says that, though it’s hard to tell. It doesn’t matter that his brother doesn’t say it back. That he lets Auguste hold him for as long as he wants, is enough.

 

***

 

Laurent goes out to meet their parents in the city for lunch. Auguste offers to drive him before he leaves, letting the absence of his invitation go unmentioned, but Laurent won’t let him with his hangover. So, Auguste spends the rest of the afternoon sitting on the floor in the shower, letting the warm stream beat down against his skull until it drowns out the pounding in his head. He stays there until his fingers are wrinkled and pruned, and then longer still. When he finally gets out, he still feels unclean. He always does.

Laurent and their parents return before dinner. They make an awful racket when they come in, their mother chattering loudly away while Laurent, Auguste imagines, humours her with a reasonable degree of sincerity. Their mother misses Laurent desperately when he goes away-- it’s always been like that.

She is trying to pull her youngest son into her arms, peppering him with exaggerated kisses, when Auguste goes out into the main living room where they’ve gathered. He chuckles, despite himself, when Laurent makes retching noises, trying to push his mother away as his cheeks turn red.

Their father watches with a familiar gruff expression. Still, he pats Laurent on the back when their mother releases him, ruffling his neatly braided hair without even a passing comment about its girlish length. It’s practically a declaration of his undying love.

“And Lina helped you move all your things into your old room?” Mother asks, fussing with Laurent’s hair after swatting their father’s arm away. “I prepared it for you this morning, nice clean sheets and everything. I haven’t touched it at all since you left, so it should be exactly as it was. Something familiar for you, after all that time away.”

“Thank you mother,” Laurent says. He leans down -- when had he gotten so tall? -- and kisses her cheek.

It’s a sweet moment. Such things are few and far between, in this house. Auguste enjoys it, while he can, even if from the outside looking in.

It’s then that their father notices him hanging in the doorway, and the sweet moment ends.

“Looks who’s decided to grace us with his presence,” he says. Auguste doesn’t think he imagines the way his father puffs his chest up, like a gorilla. “I cannot believe you left your brother at the airport. His mother had to stop what she was doing to go and pick him up in your stead. Tell me, boy, is it an effort to be so selfish, or does it simply come naturally to you?”

There is silence, for a terribly long time.

As with every interaction with their father, Auguste feels little more than a child again. The panicky weight of guilt bubbles up, tight and hot, in his chest. He is once again the thirteen year old boy who’d accidentally pitched the cricket ball through the kitchen window, the sixteen year old boy who’d borrowed his father’s car to drive to a party and returned it with a nick in the paint. He feels small. He feels powerless. He feels _guilty._ And the look in his father’s eyes makes him feel _afraid._

“Are you going to apologise?”

Their mother finally finds her voice. “Aleron--”

“No, I think Laurent is owed an apology,” their father insists.

“He’s apologised already, sir,” Laurent says. “And, he’s promised to make it up to me.”

Auguste meets Laurent’s eyes. Having not expected it, the solidarity he finds in them rocks him to his core.  

He turns, before his expression can betray him. With his fathers grumbles at his back, he leaves the living room unaccosted. As he turns into the hallway, he stops. The door had been closed before, hence why he’d just walked past it, but there it is now, on the opposite end of the hall from his own. Laurent’s old room.

It is exactly as he left it, as their mother promised, when he’d moved out to go to university at the beginning of the year. The same posters on the walls, the same books on the shelf, even the same sheets on the bed. The only thing that has changed, the only noticeable thing, is the smell. It doesn’t smell like Laurent anymore, not in the same way it used to. It smells like fresh sheets and the air freshner. It’s jarring. It feels... _wrong_.

Auguste walks into the room, not really sure why, but drawn to it all the same. Laurent’s suitcase is still on the bed, unpacked, though his computer has been set up on the desk. There isn’t a single thing out of place, such a jarring contrast to the state of Auguste’s own room, which he’s only been in for a day. Everything Laurent owns, everything he _touches_ is kept neat and tidy and left exactly as he found it. Structured, disciplined, sensible. Everything Auguste _isn’t._

Their differences didn’t used to feel like a divide. Once, they had complimented each other perfectly. As different as night and day, and yet joined at the hip, as their mother used to say.

He blames himself for their distance. He did this. He drove Laurent away, the same as he has always driven off everyone.

Like a punch to the chest it hits him; just how desperately he _misses_ his brother. Just how much he wishes things were as they used to be. He feels something akin to grief, at the loss.

“Auguste.”

Auguste jumps half a foot, spinning to see Laurent standing in the doorway behind him, watching him. He feels caught out, like he’s doing something he shouldn’t. Maybe he is. Maybe Laurent doesn’t feel the same way Auguste does. Maybe he’s not welcome here anymore.

“Everything alright?” Laurent asks.

Auguste chuckles, trying to force the tension out of his shoulders. He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I, uh, was just--”

“Yeah. I know.” Laurent walks into the room, pulling his hair loose from its tie and shaking it out before throwing himself onto his bed. “It’s weird, being back here.”

Auguste blinks. It’s almost like having whiplash, the sudden and obvious casualness in his brother’s demeanor, at total odds with the man he’d sat beside this morning. Tentatively, Auguste sits on the edge of the bed beside him. He smooths his hands over the sheets, a little roughened with age and repeated washes. He had this before Auguste left; it must be positively ancient by his mother’s linen standards. Sentiment, Auguste guesses. Laurent always loved these sheets; midnight blue and covered with stars.

His gaze shifts to his brother.

Laurent is lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, one arm propped up behind his head. He turns to Auguste, sensing his gaze, perhaps. His blue eyes seem to bore right into Auguste’s soul.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Laurent says. “I didn’t mention it, at lunch. I wouldn’t.”

A part of Auguste is immeasurably relieved by that. He hadn’t thought of it, really, that his brother might rouse his parents against him, though he can see why Laurent, with his mind, might have thought he had. It isn’t in Auguste’s nature to be suspicious, he supposes.

“It’s ok,” Auguste says. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Laurent scoffs. He rolls over, his body only a handspan away from where Auguste is sitting. His hair fans out across the sheets, tickling the back of Auguste’s hand. Auguste doesn’t even think as he absentmindedly begins to stroke his fingers through Laurent’s hair. It’s soft, silky, it smells of honey and cinnamon, the first familiar scent Auguste can remember.

Laurent makes a pleased sound, tilting his head into Auguste’s palm. “How long are you staying?” Laurent asks, after a long silence.

“I don’t know,” Auguste says. “The band’s on a break, I don’t have to be back in LA till October.”

Laurent makes a humming noise in response, eyes falling shut as Auguste continues to stroke his hair.

“I was thinking of doing some travelling though. I don’t know. Haven’t been to Europe in a while.”

Laurent’s eyes open and meet his. “Please,” he says, “Stay. At least for the month. At least for me.”

Auguste smiles. He never could refuse his brother anything.

“Of course,” he says. “Can’t say no to that dumb face.”

Laurent’s eyes crinkle in the ghost of a smile.

 

***

 

Dinner is somewhat of an awkward affair.

Their father sits in silence, for the most part, as does Auguste, while their mother sinks her talons into Laurent and bombards him with her incessant, prying questions. Laurent mostly deflects, or tells her what she wants to hear. She’ll fawn over him for hours, otherwise, and threaten to have him transferred closer to home to take care of him herself.

Auguste watches his father’s glass out of the corner of his eye as dinner progresses. He’s finishing his third red, by the time Lina the housekeeper comes and clears up their plates. His cheeks have a faint flush, and he’s chuckled more than once at one of Laurent’s comments, which, for him, is frankly alarming.

Their mother retires to her study afterward, citing exhaustion after her long day. A quick glance in Auguste’s direction reminds him that that is his fault. She kisses Laurent goodnight, holding him close and tight for a long while, and for Auguste, she tilts her face for a kiss on her cheek. He obliges her, and she pats his arm gently. Auguste hates how warm it makes him feel.

Once she’s gone their father invites them to his study for an after dinner whiskey, as men do, he says. It’s less of an invitation than an order, and they know better than to decline. Auguste follows warily, conscious of how much their father has had to drink, with Laurent trailing close behind him. Auguste thinks he feels fingertips ghosting along the back of his shirt as he walks. A gesture of solidarity, maybe, or a warning not to rock the boat. Fair advice, given their history.

Their father pushes open the door to his private lounge, off the dining room. Auguste almost hesitates before stepping over the threshold. They haven’t been in this room often; they weren’t allowed as children, and after that it just didn’t feel right to be in their father’s private space. It’s always felt dangerous in here.

The room is dark, covered with brown leather and lined with bookshelves, every inch a business man’s haven. A small bar rests in the corner of the room with various top shelf bottles lined up along its counter, and beside that a desk, faced by three plush leather armchairs arranged in a half circle with a coffee table in the centre. Their father gestures for them to sit, and pours them both a tumbler of brandy. Laurent isn’t yet legally able to drink, his eighteenth birthday isn’t for another two months, but their father pays this no mind and hands him the double finger with an encouraging clap on his back.

If it is Laurent’s first taste of alcohol, he gives no indication. He sips the beverage without so much as a wince, the picture of gentlemanliness, as much as their father expects of him.

Auguste tips his own back and downs the lot in a single gulp. He ignores his father’s disapproving stare.

“It’s good to have you boys back,” their father says evenly, sinking into his chair with a grunt. “We haven’t all been together since our holiday last year, isn’t that right?”

“Yes sir,” Auguste replies.

Auguste forces his face to remain neutral. He watches Laurent, out of the corner of his eye, and sees his brother staring down at the tumbler in his hands. He’s sure there’s the ghost of a smile on his lips, though. Auguste looks away.

Their father takes a large sip his own drink. He turns to Laurent over the rim of his glass. “How are your grades, son?”

Laurent’s eyes flick to Auguste. Auguste looks back, the only comfort he can give.

“Fine,” Laurent says, and, when their father raises a brow, amends it to, “Good. I got High distinctions.”

Their father’s face splits into a smile. He leans forward, clapping Laurent’s knee a touch too hard. “Excellent!” He says. “You’ve always made me proud, son, a father couldn’t wish for more.”

Auguste stands, grabbing his tumbler as he does, and walks over to their father’s mini bar. He pours himself another double finger of scotch, and knocks that back too.

“You’ll be an excellent lawyer. You’ve always had the right head for it, the right drive, I always said so, didn’t I?” He chuckles. “You’ll make a good life for yourself. A good future. A _secure_ one. God knows I needed at least one son to give me that.”

Auguste’s grip tightens around his glass, knuckles white.

Laurent’s chair creaks as he shifts. “Thank you, sir.”

“Maybe your brother could learn a thing or two from your success,” their father goes on. “Tell me Auguste-- are you listening boy?-- isn’t Laurent’s success wonderful? You should tell your brother so, he’s worked hard for his achievements, haven’t you Laurent? I imagine you’d be able to do it yourself easily enough, if you just _applied_ yourself, and got those ridiculous ideas about music out of your head.”

Auguste grits his teeth. He pours his third glass, back turned to his father, biting his tongue to stay quiet.

“What, no smart alec retort?” He chuckles, the sound cruel, spiteful. “Perhaps finally--”

“Father, how has the business been?”

Auguste could kiss Laurent for the diversion. Indeed, at the first mention of his successful textile business, their father is off on another of his dull tangents, boasting about his success and the future of his company. If he bores Laurent to tears half as much as he bores Auguste, Laurent is far too diplomatic to let it show.

Auguste leans back against the bar, tuning his father out. The closer to the alcohol he is, the better. He savours his third whiskey, it is a good vintage, to be fair, and his father will probably have a meltdown if he goes through three so quickly.

Laurent sips his alcohol slowly. The more distracted their father is, the drunker he gets, the easier it is to see little telltale signs of Laurent grimacing at the taste of his drink. Auguste smiles to himself, noticing it. Laurent isn’t made of stone after all.

Of course, no matter how good Laurent is at deflecting their father’s attention, how skillful he is at making anyone believe he genuinely gives a shit about what they’re saying, eventually their father manages to turn the conversation back to Auguste.

“Pour me another glass, boy, before you drink it all,” he says. He holds his tumbler out, not even looking in Auguste’s direction. Auguste grits his teeth, setting his jaw. He unstops the whiskey bottle, walking close enough to his father to be able to pour it in.

He’s overestimated how much he’s drunk, though. His perception is off. He misses the first drop by an inch. He watches, as though in slow motion, as it falls to the carpet below.

For all that it’s the tiniest drop of liquid, his father reacts as though he’s upended the entire bottle. He shouts, so loud Auguste cringes, and reaches out so fast he knocks Auguste’s hand violently, sending the whiskey bottle flying. Auguste stumbles back, slamming into the bar behind him, and the whiskey bottle collides with the wall.

As it smashes into pieces, Auguste is seized by the instinct to run.

He hesitates a second too long, though. That’s all it takes for their father to turn on him. “You little fucking idiot,” he roars, “Good for nothing piece of shit, look what you’ve done!” He pushes himself to his feet, stomping over to Auguste with footfalls that seem to shake the room.

He’s gripped with terror, hardly able to breathe for it, as his father turns to him with such rage in his eyes that Auguste is certain he’s going to kill him. In that moment Auguste is sixteen again, standing exactly here, as he is now, telling his father he’s pursuing his band. The sense of deja vu makes him faintly dizzy. He desperately wants to cower, to apologise, to do anything to get that expression of rage off of his father’s face, because he _knows_ how this ends.

Behind him, Laurent scrambles to his feet, reaching out to their father as he rounds on Auguste. “Father, it was an accident--”

“You stay out of this, son,” their father snarls over his shoulder.

Laurent doesn’t heed him. His hand settles on their father’s shoulder, desperately trying to pull him back.

Their father turns immediately, drawing his fist back, raising it over his head, his eyes fixed unseeingly on a Laurent who’s too terrified to move, who never thought in a million years that their drunken father would turn his rage on _him_.

Auguste doesn’t think. All thought, all sense, all reason, abandons him. He doesn’t hesitate. He throws himself forward, shoving Laurent out of the way just as their father’s fist comes down. In place of Laurent, it collides with Auguste’s face instead.

Auguste’s head snaps violently to the side, and he can tell immediately that his father has split the lip. His face goes numb for an awful second, before it _throbs._

Laurent shouts, Auguste can feel his hands pushing at him. Auguste shoves him out of the way as the second blow lands.

He stumbles, listing over against the wall, barely catching it before he falls, pressing into the sticky spot left by the whiskey. He gasps, vision blurring. He can’t feel the side of his face.

There is a dreadful, awful silence.

Blinking through the spots in his eyes, Auguste finds Laurent; slumped against the couch he had pushed him towards. He checks him, eyes scanning head to toe. He’s fine. He’s ok.

Their father is motionless, in the centre of the room. His fist is still clenched, knuckles white with tension. He’s staring at the spot Laurent had been, where Auguste had been, breathing loud and hard. Auguste watches him, every muscle in his body tense.

Their father goes over to the bar. He uncorks a bottle and takes a swig directly from it. With his back turned, he says under his breath, “Get the fuck out of my house.”

Auguste doesn’t need to be told twice.

He flees the room, Laurent close behind.

As soon as the door is closed behind them, Auguste turns to Laurent. He cups his face in his hands, turning it under the dim hallway light, checking it for marks. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine.” Laurent takes a hold of his wrists, stilling his exam. “I’m-- Are you--”

Auguste smiles thinly, the movement tugging at his split lip. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s all good.”

“Let me drive,” Laurent says. “We can go to a hotel, there’s a few nearby. Where are your keys?”

Auguste huffs out a short breath, letting his hands fall away from Laurent’s face, wrists still captured in Laurent’s tight grip. “It’s alright Lo,” Auguste tells him, “You’ll be alright here, you don’t need to come with me.”

The hurt in his brother’s voice nearly breaks him. “ _Auguste--_ ”

It takes every ounce of effort left in Auguste’s body to remove his brother’s grip from his wrists. “It’ll just be for the night,” he promises.

It’s a lie, of course.

Auguste needs to leave. He can’t stay. He was a fool to think he could.

Tomorrow, he’ll be on the earliest plane out, far, far away from here. He can leave his stuff, he’ll buy more when he gets back to LA anyway, none of it matters. It’s all just meaningless junk.

But, he doesn’t know how to explain that to his brother. He doesn’t know the words to explain to him that it’s not his fault, that it never was, that Auguste isn’t leaving because of _him_. It hurts too much, it always hurts too fucking much. He doesn’t have the strength to look Laurent in the eye and tell him he’s not coming back. That he needs to stay. That he’s safe here, far safer here than he is with Auguste, far better off than he’ll ever be anywhere else. He never did.

It’s for his own good.

“You’re too drunk to drive,” Laurent says. “Auguste, you’re hurt.”

Auguste chuckles bitterly. “I’ve had worse.”

He turns away.

His jacket is out in the kitchen, hanging over the back of a chair. His wallet is still inside, as are his keys. He pulls it on, keys jangling in his pocket as he does. “I’ll swing by for my clothes tomorrow.” The words feel bitter in his mouth. “Don’t try to stop him if he throws them out on the street. Stay out of his way till he’s sober.”

“Auguste, you can’t--”

Auguste rounds on his brother, expression absolutely serious. “Go to your room. Go to bed. Lock the door. Just for tonight, but do it for me. If anything happens, you call me straight away, do you understand?”

Laurent grabs a fistfull of his shirt, refusing to let him pull away. “I won’t let you leave like this. You’ll-- you can’t-- you’re too drunk to drive.”

Auguste enfolds his brother’s hands in his own, pulling them gently away from his shirt. “I’ll be ok, Laurent.”

“ _Auguste_.”

Auguste sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing when it pulls against the tender skin on his cheek. He knows he’s not going to win this.

“Ok,” he says. “I’ll call an uber.”

Laurent visibly sags with relief. “I’ll wait with you outside.”

“No--”

“You can’t stop me.”

Auguste knows he can’t. The look of determination on Laurent’s face is absolutely resolute. He chuckles, despite everything, seeing it. His baby brother, looking out for him.

“Ok,” Auguste says, pulling him under his arm, like he used to do, once, a long time ago. “Ok.”

Auguste doesn’t pack any of his things. Laurent doesn’t mention it.

The uber is only five minutes away by the time they reach the front, but it’s fucking freezing outside. Laurent shivers immediately, dressed only in a light sweater, though in typical fashion pretends like its fine. Auguste rolls his eyes and pulls him close, tucking him under his arm to keep him warm. He feels Laurent slump against him, feels his cheek pressed against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he hears Laurent whisper under his breath. “I didn’t know he would do that.”

Auguste holds his brother tighter. “It’s ok,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

He can feel his brother stiffen. He knows he’s blaming himself.

So, Auguste reaches out and tilts Laurent’s chin up. Laurent meets his eyes, the steely blue of them bitter and sad. Auguste would move mountains to get that expression off his brother’s face.

“It’s not your fault, and it never will be,” he says. “I can’t live with this if you blame yourself.”

Laurent softens, then. His head lists against Auguste’s shoulder, blond hair tickling Auguste’s chin.

“Don’t leave,” he says, so quietly Auguste barely hears him. “Please, don’t leave.”

Auguste doesn’t say anything. He pretends he doesn’t hear. He hates himself for it, but better that than a lie. Better to just disappear.

He holds Laurent so tight he must be struggling to breathe, but Laurent doesn’t push him away. They stand there, in silence. Auguste counts every second, desperately clinging on to these moments like they are his last. It passes in the blink of an eye. By the time the uber pulls up, Auguste isn’t ready to let go.

But, honestly, he’ll never be ready for that.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Laurent says, as Auguste gives him a final squeeze and steps out toward the car.

“Sure thing, little brother,” Auguste replies. He smiles, feeling his split lip tug painfully. “I’ll talk to you later.”

He gets into the uber and shuts the door behind him.

“Ignore that address, mate,” Auguste says, as the driver pulls away from the curb. “Take me to the nearest bar.”

 

***

 

When a pretty blond boy comes up to him, perhaps sometime into his third whiskey, pressing a little closer than is decent to his side, telling Auguste he should buy him a drink, Auguste doesn’t turn him away. He let’s the guy palm him through his jeans under the bar, lets him drape himself over Auguste’s shoulders and babble nonsense in his ear over the din of the music. He even lets the boy suck him off in the bathroom, and returns the favour with a uncoordinated handjob.

His hair might not have been long enough, or soft enough, or blond enough, his voice might have been too high and his eyes too grey, but it makes it easier to pretend.

 

***

 

He’s awoken by harsh light. His head throbs and nausea bubbles up in his gut, threatening to spill over. It takes a second for the pain in his face to hit him, but when it does he can’t help but groan. The entire left side of his face feels like one giant bruise, and his split lip fucking stings. He gingerly covers his face with his arm, trying to block out some of the light streaming into the room.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

Auguste jumps, and moves his arm from his face, looking down to see Laurent standing at the foot of his bed with his arms crossed over his chest.

So much for his subtle escape, then.

Auguste sighs, slumping back into the bed, rubbing at his eyes as he curses himself.

He shouldn’t have gone out last night, he’d slept through all his fucking alarms. He should have been on a fucking plane by now. He should’ve been out of here, halfway to fucking New Mexico.

But, as he looks down at his brother, surveying the cheap hotel room with a snobbish look on his face, he realises it probably wouldn’t have mattered. His brother was here because he knew what Auguste had been planning to do, had probably known from the very moment their father had told him to leave, that much was obvious. His little brother has always been uncomfortably clever. Or, maybe Auguste was starting to become predictable.

He watches Laurent moving through his room, kicking clothes that he’d left on the floor out of his way as he makes his way over to the bed. Auguste belatedly realises that he’s naked, having thrown last night's clothes at the end of his bed before falling drunkenly into it. He cringes when he sees Laurent pick his shirt up.

“You smell like shit,” his little brother says and, with pursed lips, “There’s jizz on your shirt.”

Auguste grabs the pillow from beside his head and lobs it over at Laurent. It smacks him in the face, making him drop the shirt, which is satisfying until Laurent pegs it back.

Auguste pushes himself up as Laurent sits down beside him, the sheet covering him slipping down to his waist as he does, revealing his bare chest, and the hickies that blond had sucked onto his neck. Laurent pokes one with an eyebrow raised. Auguste swats his hand away.

“Where’d you go last night?” Laurent asks. His voice is quieter now.

“Out.”

Laurent gives him a bland expression. He pokes Auguste again.

Auguste almost pushes him away, but Laurent catches his wrist. His other hand hovers over Auguste’s cheek, fingertips just barely brushing against the bruise forming there.

“Does it hurt?” Laurent asks, voice soft.

Auguste blinks at him, silent for a long moment. He doesn’t know what to do with his brother’s gentleness. He opens his mouth, trying to find the right words, but winces as it tugs at his lip. His brother glances down, seeing the small, red cut. Auguste freezes, barely able to breathe, as Laurent brushes his thumb against it.

“It’s fine,” Auguste manages to say.

For a few moments more, Laurent’s thumb lingers on his lip. Laurent’s eyes flick up to his.

Then, of course, he pulls away.

Auguste pushes himself up further on the bed, wincing as his head throbs. As he does, the sheet covering him falls a little more, pooling dangerously low in his lap. Auguste freezes, daring to chance a glance at his brother. He sees Laurent’s eyes flicker downwards, so quickly Auguste almost isn’t sure he’d seen it at all, before he turns away.

Auguste leaves the sheet where it is.

“How’d you even get in here?” he asks.

“The front desk let me in,” Laurent says, shrugging.

“No, they didn’t.”

Laurent rolls his eyes and gets up, making his way over to the kitchenette separated from the rest of the room by a half wall. “I took your keys out of your jacket,” he says. “They have a GPS tracker for your phone. And, well, it’s not like this place has very good locks.” Laurent shoots him a grin over his shoulder.

Auguste blinks at his brother, taking him in in a wholly new light. “When the fuck did you learn how to pick pockets?” He asks incredulously. “And who the _fuck_ taught you how to pick a lock?”

Laurent chuckles, in favour of answering, and flicks on the kettle.

Despite himself, Auguste smiles.

But, of course, he still has to open his big mouth and ask, “Why are you here?”

Laurent hesitates. Auguste half expects him to call him out on his plans to leave. He promised he’d stay, after all. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d reneged on that promise.

“I didn’t want to hang around there,” Laurent finally says. “Mother won’t leave me alone, and father…”

Auguste winces. His cheek throbs.

“If I hadn’t--”

“Don’t.” Auguste cuts Laurent off. He doesn’t look at him, choosing instead to stare out the window at the street beyond. The sun hurts his eyes, but he doesn’t look away.

“But it’s--”

“I said _don’t.”_

Laurent falls silent, before he starts spooning the instant coffee into the cups, a little too aggressively.

“It’s not your fault, Laurent,” Auguste says, quieter now. Apologetic. “It will never be your fault.”

Laurent doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t reply.

Auguste wishes there were something he could do, to take the burden of guilt from his brother’s shoulders.

It would have been easier if he’d just disappeared.

As Laurent pours the hot water into the two mugs, Auguste says, “I need to shower.”

“So shower.”

Auguste shifts awkwardly on the bed. Laurent can clearly see that the bathroom door is past the kitchenette. And it’s not like Auguste has something he can use to cover himself, save for pulling the entire bedsheet off to wrap around his waist.

“Can you--”

“It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”

Auguste freezes. He blinks at Laurent, who is looking down at the mugs, shrugging nonchalantly.

“We grew up together, didn’t we?”

Auguste chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck and hoping it’s less awkward than it feels. If there is a small part of him, a tiny voice in the back of his head that he’s always ignored, always kept silent, that feels disappointed, Auguste shoves it down viciously.

With Laurent’s attention on the mugs, Auguste throws off the sheets and pushes himself out of bed. It is cool in the room, and he shivers a bit as his bare feet touch the tiles. He keeps walking however, past Laurent at the little kitchenette and to the bathroom. He doesn’t look at Laurent as he passes. He carefully ignores the eyes he can feel boring into his back.

He showers quickly, enough to get the stink of booze off himself, and brushes his teeth. He only realises he’s got to put his filthy clothes back on after he gets out, and that he’s left them out by the bed. Which means he’ll have to walk past Laurent to get them. He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He has no choice but to wrap the tiny hotel towel around his waist and go back out.

When he comes out, Laurent is sitting at the tiny table, staring down at his phone. He looks up when Auguste comes in.

“I, uh, brought some clothes over for you,” Laurent says. He tilts his head towards the door, where Auguste can see one of Laurent’s old backpack’s propped up against it.

Small blessings, Auguste thinks.

Auguste makes his way over to his suitcase quickly, clutching the towel around his waist with one hand as he fishes inside for a clean pair of clothes. He pulls out a sweater and a pair of jeans, the first he can find, and turns around to return to the bathroom.

As he does, his eyes meet Laurent’s.

“You should wear the blue one,” Laurent says. “You look better in blue.”

Auguste swallows. He puts back the black one he’d picked up, picking up instead the soft, dark blue sweater resting just on top. He doesn’t recognise it, at first. It doesn’t look like something he’d wear, at least not something he’s worn in the past few years. It smells like detergent and fabric soften. The subtle hint of orange and cinnamon reaches his nose. It’s old, he realises. He hasn’t worn this in years.

When he looks back up, Laurent is looking away.

Auguste dresses in the bathroom, towelling off his hair before returning to the kitchenette. The coffee Laurent had made for him is sitting across from him at the table, still hot. He sits down across from his brother and starts to drink.

“I brought some aspirin,” Laurent says. He reaches into his pocket, fishing out a silver packet and putting it on the table between them.

Something like shame flashes hot and insistent in Auguste’s chest. It doesn’t stop him from reaching out and grabbing the packet, popping two pills into his palm before knocking them back and swallowing down a gulp of hot coffee, ignoring the way it burns his throat.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Auguste says.

Laurent shrugs. “We should do something,” he says instead. “Go away for a bit. Together. Just us.”

Auguste raises an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?” He asks.

“Remember the camping site nana and grandpa used to take us to, on the peninsula?”

Auguste does, but he’s surprised Laurent does as well. He must have been younger than ten, the last time they’d been, just before their grandparents died.

“It won’t be busy this time of year,” Laurent goes on. “We’d probably have it to ourselves. I was thinking… It’s just, It might be good to you know, get away. I know that Mother and father can be… I didn’t want...”

Before he can think, Auguste is reaching out across the table, wrapping his larger hand around Laurent’s where it rests on the dirty, chipped surface.

“I’d like that,” Auguste says. “I’d like that very much.”

 

***

 

Laurent, as it turns out, has already packed.

He brought his car, the shiny lamborghini Auguste had bought with his first big paycheck years ago, and has loaded it with a few of his own bags and the rest of Auguste’s things.

The car would go through hell on the old country roads, but Auguste has insurance. And all the thing ever does is sit around in storage while he’s away. For the sake of Laurent’s gleeful obsession with the thing, Auguste is willing to risk the paint job.

Auguste laughs when he sees it parked haphazardly on the side of the road, his brother’s attempt at a parallel park. Laurent shoves him in retaliation.

They stop off at a camping store before they leave the city, buying a tent with rain proofing and enough supplies to last them through the next few days. The place they’re going doesn’t have much in the way of a grocery store.

Auguste grouses at him when Laurent picks the best of everything, things probably more expensive than they’re worth. Laurent’s never wanted for money; he’s always been a reckless spender.

“What, you can’t afford it?” Laurent asks with a cheeky smirk. “ _You_?”

Auguste pinches the smug grin off his face. Still, he indulges him.

They hit the open road just after midday. Auguste won’t let Laurent drive, no matter how much he insists he can, waving his red P’s to prove it. Auguste might not care much for the car, but the country roads are winding, and Laurent’s never driven them before.

Auguste is thankful for the dark tinting on the windows as he pulls onto the motorway, and the pair of aviators he keeps in the dashboard as the sun shines down bright overhead. Laurent talks for a while. At first, of nothing of consequence. Auguste doesn’t respond much, paying attention to the roads as they quickly pass the city limits and the roads started to get rougher.

A couple of hours in Laurent falls silent, propping his arm up on the window ledge and resting his head on his hand. Auguste notices his eyes drifting closed in the corner of his eye with endeared amusement.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he says.

Laurent jolts upright, blinking groggily.

“I’m not,” he insists. “I was just resting my eyes.”

“Sure, sure.”

Laurent punches his thigh, the little brat. It makes Auguste laugh.

“Why don’t you put some music on, sleeping beauty? There’s CD’s in the glove box.”

“What, are we living in the stone age?” He pops the glove box open though, and begins rifling through the half dozen CD’s Auguste has collected over the years.

He pulls one out, flipping it over and looking at the cover. He chuckles.

“You know you look absolutely ridiculous on this cover?”

Auguste glances over, seeing which CD Laurent has in his hand. He recognises it easily enough. It’s his band's first ever album, six years old now, at the very least. The cover is as corny as most mid 2000’s covers were; a punk group pose, and the trashiest outfits one could possibly imagine. They’d championed the goth scene, back then. Auguste chuckles, remembering it.

“Was this the first?” Laurent asks. He flips it over to the back and looks at the list of songs there.

“Yeah,” Auguste says. “That was the first.”

“Has it really been six years?” Laurent asks absently. “God, I must have been twelve when you did this. It doesn’t feel like that long ago.”

He was right. It doesn’t.

It feels like only yesterday he and his friends were practicing their shitty instruments in Jord’s parent’s garage, dreaming the impossible dream of every musician.

It doesn’t feel like six years since they’d signed their deal and he’d packed his bags and left. It doesn’t feel like six years since Laurent, twelve years old and teary eyed, had stood on the doorstep begging him to stay.

Six years, since their big break.

Six years since their first album, and instant stardom.

Six years, and a lifetime worth of regrets.

“You don’t wanna listen to that shit,” Auguste says. “It’s fucking awful.”

Laurent laughs, head falling back against the headrest as his chest shakes. “God, it’s so bad.” He opens the case and puts the CD into the slot.

“Little bastard,” Auguste groans as the first track starts blaring through the speakers.

 

***

 

They make it to the edges of the country town just before the sun starts to set. As Auguste parks in the camping grounds carpark, the sun sinks into the ocean below the distant horizon, sending soft pinks and oranges streaking across the sky like a watercolor painting.

Laurent grabs his arm. “Isn’t it pretty?” He asks. “I don’t remember the sunset being this pretty.”

Auguste turns to look at him, at his face, upturned towards the sky, eyes wide and bright, cheeks warm and rosy with pleasure.

“No,” Auguste says. “Neither do I.”

There is no one at the counter when they walk inside the dingy little camping office. Auguste rings a bell on the counter, leaning against it as he watches Laurent amble around the room, looking at the posters pinned to the walls and the bulletin board by the door. There are maps of the trails nearby, pictures of the coast and advertisements from nearby stores and cafes that campers can visit. An aerial view of the camping ground interests Laurent most. He trails his finger along the winding road as it travels past numbered squares that indicate camping sections. He follows it all the way to the very end of the road, to a spot that looks to be at the very top of the nearby hill, overlooking the beach.

“I want to go here,” Laurent says, looking over his shoulder at Auguste.

Auguste crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “You know that’s in the middle of nowhere?”

“We’re already in the middle of nowhere,” Laurent says. He turns around fully. “I want to be properly alone. I want to be cut off from the world. I want it to be just you and me.”

Auguste meets his eyes. They are so earnest. Unyielding. Laurent knows what he wants, and he very well expects to get it.

A lady arrives behind the counter then, looking ragged and bored as she slides into her chair. She glances between them, gaze brightening as it falls on Auguste, lingering just a little too long. He desperately hopes she doesn’t recognise him.

“What’ll it be?” She drawls.

“Lot 25,” Laurent pipes up. He pushes up next to Auguste, leaning his weight into his brother’s side and folding his arms over the counter. “We want it for three days.”

For whatever reason, from whatever judgement she has apparently made in her examination of the two, the lady looks back to Auguste, as though for approval. Auguste stifles a laugh and nods, and she begins pulling out forms and typing something on the ancient, dusty computer.

She explains to them the camping ground regulations, eyes drifting back to Auguste every so often as she does, and gives them maps to the bathrooms and a number to call for emergencies.

Auguste hands over his card when she names the price. He sees the way her attention zeroes in on the fancy black label.

“Will you and your…” she gestures between them, looking pointedly at Auguste.

He knows the tactic. With a sigh, he opens his mouth to speak.

Laurent cuts him off.

“Boyfriend,” he says.

Auguste blinks. He looks at Laurent, trying to keep his expression neutral and failing. Laurent smiles back, nudging Auguste with his foot pointedly, before looping his arm around Auguste’s waist. Despite himself, Auguste shivers.

Auguste turns back to the woman who is looking between them suspiciously. For a moment, Auguste thinks she’s going to realise they’re lying, that Auguste a little too familiar, that the two of them look just a bit too similar. But, the woman didn’t say anything. With an obnoxious sigh, she intones, “Will you and your boyfriend be wanting anything else?”

“No, thank you.” Auguste says. He turns away quickly, steering Laurent away from the counter. He hears the woman muttering under her breath as they leave, something about the good ones being gay. He ignores her.

Once they get outside, Laurent starts to laugh.

“Laurent,” Auguste bemoans, elbowing his chuckling brother in the side. Laurent pushes him half heartedly away, clutching his stomach as he laughs himself to tears.

“Did you see her face?” He cackles.

Auguste sighs. He runs a hand through his hair, squeezing his eyes closed and counting to ten, calming himself down. His heart is still thundering in his chest.

“You can’t do that, Laurent,” he says. “If she had recognised me--”

“Oh come off it,” Laurent chuckles. “You think some middle aged hag from a country town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere is gonna recognise _you.”_

That stops Auguste in his tracks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Laurent stops laughing. He looks at Auguste, his mouth opening and closing as though he were trying to find the words to say. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I just meant--”

“I know what you meant,” Auguste says, failing to keep his tone level.

“Auguste--”

“Don’t. It’s fine.” Auguste goes to the car, opening the door a little too aggressively. “Just get in the car.”

The campsite is, indeed, practically empty at this time of year. The drive to their plot is a long ten minute trek down winding gravel roads, dangerously overgrown in the off season. He winces when a tree branch scrapes down the side of his car. That’s going to leave a mark.

The camping spot is secluded, no other plots or people nearby. Auguste imagines he could scream at the top of his lungs out here, and no one would hear him. Tempting thought. It’s at the top of a hill, overlooking the beach down below. There are cliffs nearby, familiar from a long passed childhood, and an overgrown and unmarked trail that lead down to the shore.

Auguste parks the car in a clear spot off the road, turning off the engine and sitting in the dark with Laurent beside him. They have a perfect view of the horizon from here. In the light of the setting sun, it is beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” Laurent says into the silence. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. I know things haven’t been…”

“You don’t know anything,” Auguste snaps. The second after he says it, he hates himself for it. It isn’t Laurent’s fault the last album hadn’t sold well. It isn’t his fault that the band’s management are starting to get cold feet.

“I know,” Laurent says, his voice almost uncharacteristically small. “But I want to.”

Auguste closes his eyes. He sucks in a breath, hands running through his hair messily before falling to his lap.

“I thought maybe this would give us a chance to talk. Fuck knows there’s not much else to do around here,” Laurent presses on. “I want us to be able to talk like we used to. I want things to be how they used to be.”

The sincerity of it, the naivety of it, breaks Auguste’s heart.

“I want that, too,” he says.

He feels a hand close around his where it rests on his thigh. He looks over, and even in the waning light, the eartnesness of Laurent’s expression is breathtaking.

It is a perfect moment. The best moment Auguste can remember for far longer than he’d like to admit. It lasts right up until Laurent speaks again.

“Fuck,” he says. “We forgot to bring a torch.”

“We should set up before it gets too dark, then,” Auguste chuckles. “You start with the tent, I’ll get some wood for the fire.”

Laurent smirks at him. “Alright lumberjack.”

Auguste shoves his face away.

There’s plenty of loose kindling under the treeline and larger pieces buried under pine leaves and bark. He jumps on a few branches to break them up and gathers them in a thick bundle, enough to feed a decent fire for the night and morning.

Laurent is attempting to read the tent’s instructions with the light on his phone when Auguste makes it back to the clearing of their campsite. He dumps the wood in a pile around an old ring of rocks that has been used as a fire pit before, and goes over to help. Laurent is biting his lip as he reads the instructions, turning the page around like it’s the wrong end of a map as he looks at the example pictures.

Auguste sneaks up behind and steals the manual from him, holding it high over his head so that his shorter brother can’t grab it back.

“I was handling it,” Laurent grouses, giving up his fruitless attempts to pull Auguste’s arm down.

“Sure you did,” Auguste says, grinning down at him.

Laurent grumbles at him all the while, but he let’s Auguste direct him according to the instructions as they work together to set the tent up; Laurent holding the poles in place while Auguste hammers the pegs into the ground. It takes only a couple of minutes, with time to spare before the sun finally disappears over the horizon, sinking below the sea and plunging the world into near absolute darkness.

They get the fire going with a lot of stumbling around and trying to use the torch on their phones to see what they’re doing. Auguste takes over, building up the pile of wood and trying to use his lighter to make it start, but after ten minutes of absolutely no progress Laurent shoves him aside. He props the sticks of wood up into a little teepee-like structure, stuffing loose twigs and bark in underneath, before using Auguste’s lighter to light the edge of a piece of dry bark. He shoves it in under the wood and the pile quickly catches, the flames growing as they burned up through the structure.

Auguste watches his brother with an amused smirk as Laurent pushes to his feet, a smug look on his face. “I was handling it,” Auguste says.

“Sure you were,” Laurent says, brushing off his knees.

Auguste rolls his eyes, winding his arm around Laurent’s neck and mussing up his hair. Laurent laughs, pushing him away, but he is slighter, his body lean and wiry and lacking muscle; it is easy for Auguste to hold him still and wreck his neatly brushed hair.

When he finally lets Laurent escape they are both laughing, both breathless. By the light of the campfire, Auguste can see the pink flush on Laurent’s cheeks.

He looks happy.

They put their bags in the tent along with the sleeping bags and pillows they’ve brought, and leave the food in the car in case it attracts unwelcome scavengers. With the sun finally gone, the temperature drops fast and Laurent is shivering before long, dressed only in a light jacket and long sleeved shirt. He was too proud to admit he was cold, not after the fuss he’d made at the camping store when he’d insisted he wouldn’t wear the ugly windbreakers. Auguste had bought them anyway, of course.

Auguste gets them from the car, putting on his own as he watches Laurent sit close to the fire, chucking more wood in to build up the flame, trying not to be obvious about how cold he is. Auguste pulls him to his feet and wraps the windbreaker around his shoulders, ignoring Laurent’s protests and giving him a pointed look until Laurent begrudgingly slips his arms into the sleeves. Auguste zips up the front, all the way to Laurent’s chin, careful not to pinch the skin.

“You’re welcome,” he says. He didn’t let his fingers linger.

They hadn’t brought any chairs with them, but there is a long log beside the fire pit that they can comfortably sit on.

“I’m gonna get a splinter in my ass,” Laurent complains, as Auguste sits down and pats the space beside him, brushing off loose bark as he does.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Auguste ribs him, laughing. “With the massive stick already up there, you’d hardly notice.”

They sit there, side by side, close enough to the fire to stay warm, but far enough away that the light doesn’t obscure their view of the sky. The moon is waning, maybe a quarter full, bright enough to cast a soft glow down on them, dark enough that the black sky is full of stars; swirling galaxies and sprawling constellations as far as the eye can see.

“Were there always this many stars?” Laurent asks, resting his hands on the log behind him to avoiding straining his neck as he cranes his head back.

“I don’t know,” Auguste says. “Can you see the Southern Cross?”

Laurent looks around, tipping his head further back and exposing his long, white throat to the chilly night air. Auguste turns away from the sky. He watches his throat bob as Laurent swallows.

“Is that it there?” He points upwards, above his head.

Auguste leans in close, bringing his head just beside Laurent’s to trace the line of his finger.

“No,” he says. He reaches out, grabbing Laurent’s hand and moving it down a fraction. “There it is.”

“Oh,” Laurent says. He lets his hand linger for a moment, let's Auguste keep a hold of it. He turns his face, just a little. His hair brushes Auguste’s cheek. “Yeah,” he says.

He lets his arm drop.

They have sausages for dinner, sticking them on barbeque queues and holding them over the fire until the outside is crispy and the middles are cooked. They had done that a lot, when they were kids. Laurent had hated sausages then-- he had used to cry when their grandparents made him eat them. Character building, they had said. He eats them easily enough now.

“We should make damper tomorrow,” Laurent says. “Did we bring any salt?”

Auguste shakes his head. “We can run into town for it. If you want.”

“Sure.”

Laurent yawns, stretching his arms up and cracking his back. He runs his hand through his hair, still mussed from where Auguste had fucked with it. He slumps a little, to the side. It seems, for half a moment, that he wants to rest against Auguste, lean his head on his shoulder. Auguste holds his breath, watching Laurent from the corner of his eye, waiting to see if he will. It takes five minutes before Laurent moves again but then, as Auguste fights to keep his entire body still, Laurent leans against him and lets his head drop down, coming to rest on Auguste’s shoulder.

Auguste doesn’t think, doesn’t hesitate. He winds his arm around Laurent’s waist, resting his hand on the crook of his narrow hip.

“I forgot how boring camping was,” Laurent says.

Auguste tries not to jostle his little brother too much as he laughs.

They sit together for a long time, like that, just watching the stars. It feels exactly like it had when they were children, back when the world was bright and simple, when Laurent had looked at him like he was the world. Back when nothing had been as complicated as it is now.

Nothing has ever gone as it should.

Laurent goes to the car to get one of the books he’s brought, after a while. The little nerd never travels far without at least two to hand. Auguste follows him to the car, going around to the boot where he’s left a cask of wine beside the rest of the food. He lifts the heavy box out and closes the boot behind him, trailing back to the campfire after Laurent.

Auguste hadn’t thought to bring cups, or buy them while they were at the store, so he’s forced to pop the front flap of the box, pull the nozzle out and tip his head back as he opens the little black valve. It feels like his high school days, he thinks with a bitter laugh, as the cheap red wine trickles down into his mouth. Playing ‘slap the bag’ on his mates’ parents’ washing line, chugging half a bag upside down and chasing it with tequila. It tastes exactly the same.

“I can’t believe a world famous rockstar drinks fucking goon,” Laurent scoffs as Auguste swallowed the sour red wine.

“Like i’m going to bring a veuve camping,” Auguste snorts. “At least this shit keeps.”

Laurent kept eyeing it out of the corner of his eye as he goes back to reading by the light of his phone. Auguste shamelessly tips his head back and swallows another hefty dose, rubbing at his mouth when he spills some. He can feel the faint buzz start to settle under his skin, warming his cheeks and burning in his chest. He’s always been affected easiest by strong, red wine. It makes him feel almost giddy.

He turns to his brother, catching him looking. “You want some?” Auguste asks. He holds the box in Laurent’s direction.

“Father would kill you if he caught you giving me alcohol,” Laurent says.

Auguste scoffs. He tips back his head and takes another swallow. “He would kill me over a lot of shit,” he says. “But the fucker’s not here. He doesn’t have to know.”

Laurent dog-ears his page and closes the book, setting it aside. He takes box from Auguste, almost dropping it as he underestimates its significant weight. He sets it on his lap. Auguste watches a stray drop of wine drop from the nozzle and onto his pants.

“You shouldn’t call him that,” Laurent says.

Auguste sits back on his hands. He closes his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

Laurent lifts the box, having to hold it with two hands to keep it aloft. He tries to tip it, but the sudden distribution of the liquid inside nearly makes him drop it. Auguste watches his struggle for a moment before taking pity. He reaches out, one hand taking hold of the handle on top and keeping it up. Laurent looks at him, eyes burning blue in the campfire light.

Auguste tilts the box forwards and Laurent opens his mouth, letting the round nozzle rest on his bottom lip. Laurent pushes up the tab, opening the valve and letting the red wine rush out, faster than can swallow. A trickle of it spills over his lip, running down over his chin; a purple path trailing down the white skin of his neck. Auguste watches it, rising over the apple of Laurent’s throat and pooling in his collar bone, staining his pale skin red. Laurent swallows loudly, throat bobbing. He closes the valve and leans away, his tongue darting out between red lips to catch a stray droplet.

When Auguste tears his eyes away from his brother’s wine stained throat, he finds Laurent watching him. His brother’s expression is utterly blank, so still he might be made of marble. His eyes are wide, though. Wide and fixed on Auguste.

Auguste lets the box fall and reaches out without thinking. He presses his thumb to the hollow of Laurent’s throat, catching the droplet that has pooled there, and, slowly, follows it’s trail back up the soft, white expanse of his brother’s neck. He traces it up the jut of his Adam’s Apple, over the rise of his chin, all the way up to Laurent’s bottom lip. He rests it there, his wine stained thumb brushing against Laurent’s mouth, soft against his calloused skin. The gentlest of breaths blows against his wet flesh, making Auguste shiver.

He doesn’t know what he is waiting for, but he can hardly breathe for the anticipation. He doesn’t know what he wants; for Laurent to push him away, snap him out of this madness before he goes too far-- or for his brother to open his mouth, let Auguste press his thumb inside, for his brother to close his lips around him and suck his digit clean, a shadow of what Auguste aches for most.

It terrifies him. It disgusts him.

He wants it so badly he can’t breathe.

Then, with the shortest of exhales, Laurent parts his lips.

Helplessly, Auguste pushes his thumb inside Laurent’s mouth, smearing the wine he’d gathered on Laurent’s tongue. He feels his brother’s lips close around him, feels the wet warmth of his tongue flat against the tip of his thumb, and a sensation of suction that makes his head spin, sending fire down his spine to pool low in his gut, making his cock throb.

Auguste exhales raggedly, pushing his thumb further into Laurent’s mouth, all the way inside until he feels his brother swallow around him, his velvet mouth taking him easily and eagerly to the root.

When Auguste’s eyes dart up to meet Laurent’s, he finds them boring into him, seeing right through him into his fucking soul. It’s like a shock of cold water. Auguste jumps back, hand falling, thumb burning in the cold where Laurent’s saliva has wet it. He’s breathing hard, shocked at himself. Disgusted.

“Auguste?”

It’s Laurent’s voice that cuts him deepest. Innocent, naive. Wanting.

_Auguste did this._

He pushes himself to his feet, snagging the cask of wine as he does, and walks away. He thinks he hears Laurent calling his name, but the rushing in his ears is deafening. He doesn’t look back.

When Laurent comes into the tent later, Auguste closes his eyes, turns his face, and pretends to sleep. There’s a moment of silence, after Laurent pushes through the tent flap, when Auguste thinks Laurent is going to say his name, reach out and see if he’s awake. Auguste’s heart thuds in his chest, waiting for it. He hears Laurent pull off his shoes and crawl into bed.

There’s nothing but silence, after that.

 

***

 

Auguste had drunk enough of the wine last night, in the tent by himself, that come morning, his head feels fuzzy and rolling over makes the world tilt nauseatingly. He frowns, swallowing thickly around the dryness of his mouth. He opens his eyes.

Light streams through the thin blue tent canvas, catching on droplets of frost that have gathered on the material over the cold night. The world looks faintly misty, around it. Almost dreamlike. Everything too soft.

Laurent is on the other side of the tent, on his bed, buried in a pile of blankets. His hair fans out over the pillows, a river of gold that twists and turns and catches light like the sun. Even from the other side of the small space, Auguste can faintly hear him shivering.

He pushes himself up, taking a moment to let the world return to stationary as he does, and gathers his blanket from his lap. As quietly as he can, he gets to his knees and shuffles over to Laurent’s bed. Gently, so as to not wake Laurent, he lays his thick blanket out over his brother.

Almost immediately, Laurent sighs. He nuzzles his face into the pillows and draws the blankets tighter around himself. His shivering stops.

Auguste sits there beside Laurent on his knees for a while. His brother is so peaceful, in sleep. Soft features smoothed out into something tranquil, so still and silent Auguste almost holds his breath to avoid making any noise that might disturb him.

He shouldn’t watch like this. Watching someone sleep is not exactly normal person behaviour. Auguste tears his eyes away, sighing and rubbing them with his hands.

He finds his shoes at the end of the tent and quietly climbs out. It’s fucking freezing outside; the entire world seems to be covered in this thin, dew like frost, and immediately his feet are soaked with it. He curses, as the chilling cold settles in, hurrying over to the fireside and sitting on the log to get his feet off the grass. He dries them as best he can on his pants, and pulls on his shoes and socks.

He tries to build a fire, emulating what Laurent did as much as he can remember. It’s nowhere near as good as Laurent’s, and given how damp all the branches are, it takes twice as long to light, but eventually he gets some flames going. He stokes them carefully, building the fire until it’s warm enough to reach the log seat.

They bought a camp kettle, at the store, along with a crate of water bottles. Auguste fetches them, tipping the contents of a bottle into the silver pot before nestling it next to the hottest coals, putting the lid over the top. It’ll take ages to boil, but it should be ready by the time Laurent gets up.

Half an hour later, give or take, when the water is bubbling happy in the kettle and the fire is warm and steady, Laurent’s ruffled, blonde head pokes out of the tent flap. He yawns, rubbing his eye, as he takes in Auguste’s fire.

He comes out wrapped in a blanket, feet shoved haphazardly into his shoes, and plops himself down on the bench beside Auguste.

“Is that coffee?” He asks, voice thick with sleep.

Auguste hands him a mug, ruffling his hair as he passes it over. Laurent is too eager to get at the piping hot drink to complain.

His cheeks are pink, Auguste notices, between glances, and the tip of his nose is red. Laurent has always been much more affected by the cold.

He’s not sure he should. Not after last night, not when the guilt and shame of it is still so close. But Auguste can’t bear to see his brother suffer. Silently, Auguste shuffles closer to Laurent, and pulls him in, wrapping his arm tight around him. He rubs vigorously at Laurent’s shoulder over the blanket, trying to warm him up.

Laurent settles against him easily, head tipped towards Auguste’s shoulder. He makes a happy sound, burrowing further into Auguste’s warmth.

“How long have you been up?” Laurent asks.

“Not long,” Auguste says. “Maybe a half hour.”

Laurent nods, sipping at his coffee. “What do you want to do today?” He asks.

Auguste isn’t sure. He’d not really planned that far ahead.

“I was thinking we could go down to the beach?” Laurent continues.

“Laurent, it’s freezing.”

“Not to swim,” Laurent insists. “I don’t know. It’s a nice beach. We could just walk.”

Auguste rests his chin on the top of Laurent’s head. “Yeah,” he says. “Whatever you want.”

They go after breakfast, which consists of little more than a fruit and nut bar each. Laurent buries himself in layers upon layers of jackets, and even then still complains of the cold. Auguste gives him his thick parka, just to shut him up. He doesn’t really need it anyway.

The beach is at the bottom of the cliff their campsite sits atop of. There is a short trail from the campsite proper to the beginning of the wooden boardwalk that leads to the rickety old staircase that winds back and forth down the cliff face. They descend it carefully, holding loosely onto the railing to avoid splinters, until they reach the sand twenty metres below. It’s soft underfoot, and their boots sink into it, leaving distinct footprints in the sand behind them.

The beach stretches out along the coast, lined with steep cliffs and cut off from the rest of the world. No one comes to this part of the coast, really; the commercially popular beaches are all around the side of the furthest cliff, in a little bay area that the town was built beside. This section is completely isolated, except for the old wooden staircase.

They’re completely alone, here.

The sky is steely blue overhead, and the ocean shines under it, reflecting brilliant blue back. The waves lap at the shore almost soothingly, a gentle push and pull under a constant, unknowable rhythm.

It’s a familiar sight. Auguste has been here before; they both have. It’s been so long, though, that the nostalgia that hits him catches him by surprise. He feels, all at once, the weight of the world lift from his shoulders; indecision, guilt, shame, regret, all things that he’s lived with for so long they’ve become an intrinsic part of him, fall away. He’s thirteen again, running along this same beach with his baby brother trailing behind him, squealing in delight as Auguste tumbles to the sand, rolling around and making a mess while their grandparents scold him from their distance. Chubby baby Laurent flops on top of him, sitting square on his chest and declaring to all the world that he wins.

Auguste always let Laurent win. It had never occurred to him not to.

He wonders if Laurent remembers those memories, or if, under the weight of all this time, they are now his alone.

He turns to him, finding Laurent looking out towards the sea, face turned up to the sun and eyes closed. Laurent blinks them open, when he senses Auguste’s gaze. He turns to him, cheeks rosy, and smiles.

“It’s exactly like I remembered,” Laurent says.

Something like relief crowds Auguste chest. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

 

***

 

They walk along the sand for a while, heading towards the rocks at the far side of the inlet. They used to climb over them, as children, trying to find little pools of water, hunting crabs. Their grandparents hated it; they could have easily slipped and fallen, since the rocks were slippery after all.

Laurent toes off his shoes as they reach them. He shoots Auguste a grin over his shoulder and starts to climb.

“Be careful,” Auguste shouts after him. He can see it clearly now; Laurent slipping, bashing his head on one of the slippery black rocks and tumbling into the water below to drown. He imagines this is what his grandparents felt, every time they ran off and didn’t listen to them. It’s not a familiar feeling.

“Spoilsport,” Laurent laughs at him. “Come on!”

Auguste tells himself, as he starts to toe off his shoes, that he’s only following Laurent to make sure his little brother doesn’t kill himself. Still, when he climbs up onto that first smooth stone, he feels a familiar sensen of childish excitement fill him.

They make their way across the rocks slowly and carefully, avoiding pools of water where their toes will get bitten by crabs. The rocks run around the outside of the cliff face that marks the edge of the little beach inlet; it seems to go on forever before reaching the other side, where a familiar sight lies in wait.

Auguste had completely forgotten about the tiny little cove on the other side of the inlet, completely forgotten about the small cave that was nestled into the cliffside there. They had only been there once, after they’d escaped from their grandparents. They’d been beaten so badly afterwards for running off that they’d never tried it again. As Auguste takes in the small, sheltered cove, it all comes flooding back.

“Oh my god,” Laurent says, turning back to Auguste from his perch. “I forgot this was here.”

“Me too,” Auguste says. He overtakes his brother, passing him carefully so as not to tilt either of their balance; the water past the rocks is deep here, and laps against the surface warningly.

They manage to get to the shoreline a couple of minutes later. Auguste jumps down first-- there are no small rocks here to climb carefully down on. He holds his arms up for Laurent to come down behind him, hands on his waist as he lifts him carefully down to the ground.

The sand here seems softer, warmer. It feels untouched, isolated completely.

It feels like their own little place in the world.

Laurent makes his way over to the cave. It’s little more than a deep indent in the rock face, but it’s deep enough for a person to stretch out in. The rock face is shiny and smooth, surprisingly devoid of nature, though Auguste thinks he can see a few spiders scurrying about in the darker corners.

Laurent turns to him with a smile. “I was going to run away here,” he says. Auguste blinks at him in surprise. “When we were little, before we moved. I was going to run away and come here and live in this cave. Did I ever tell you?”

He hadn’t. Auguste would have remembered a conversation like that. “No.” He reaches out, placing his palm flat against the smooth cave wall. It’s cool to the touch. He shivers. “Why?”

“I don’t remember,” Laurent says, chuckling. “Father was probably angry at me for something. I was a kid. There’s never a good reason.”

No, Auguste supposes. There isn’t.

He turns away.

“Fuck, I didn’t mean--” Laurent cuts himself off. He sighs. “I’m fucking everything up,” he says.

Auguste turns back to him, frowning in surprise. “What--”

“I wanted to come here to get away from that shit, and I can’t seem to stop putting my fucking foot in my fucking mouth.”

Auguste blinks, as much at his little brother’s language as with surprise. “Laurent, what are you talking about?”

Laurent’s biting his lip, resolutely not meeting Auguste’s eyes. “I--” He cuts himself off with a scowl. He pushes past Auguste as he walks back out of the cave and makes his way down the beach, stopping a metre from the edge of the waves. He drops his head, and sits on the sand.

Auguste follows. He stands beside him for a moment, looking out at the endless expanse of the sea, before letting his gaze fall to Laurent. He sits beside him.

“I want to talk about it,” Laurent says, as Auguste settles beside him. “But I don’t want to drive you away again.”

Auguste looks down at his hands, resting in his lap. “I’m not going anywhere, Laurent,” he hears himself say.

Laurent scoffs. “You were going to leave yesterday, weren’t you?”

Auguste is silent. He closes his eyes.

“I thought so.”

“It’s not because of--”

“Yeah, I know,” Laurent says. “But it’s always me that suffers most because of it.”

Auguste feels guilt settle on his shoulders again. Having been free of the weight, if only for a while, makes it feel so much heavier now. Shame follows. Regret. He’s made so many mistakes. He’s hurt so many people.

“I’m sick of being so far away from you,” Laurent says. “I’m sick of everything just fucking stewing until it bubbles over and fucks us up again.”

Bermuda flashes behind Auguste’s eyelids. God, Bermuda. He can hear the shouting still, feel the throb in his fists and the crash of the wall. He can still feel Laurent’s tears on his fingers. He can taste them still. He shivers.

“I can’t just do this once a year, whenever we can remember,” Laurent says, quieter now. “It’s not enough, Auguste.”

Auguste closes his eyes. “Then what?” He says. “What do you want?”

“I want to go to LA,” Laurent says, his voice rising with every harsh breath. “I want to stay with you in your massive house that I’ve never even seen, I want to hang out with your bandmates who I’ve never even met. I want to know what the fuck you do with your time when you’re not playing and drinking. I want--” He cuts himself off, half shouting now. He growls, in frustration, burying his face in his hands. “I want to be a part of your life again,” he says. “I want to be your brother, Auguste. I want to be more than just a bad memory.”

“No,” Auguste says, surprising himself with the force with which it comes out. “You’re not that, Laurent. You’re not.”

Laurent isn’t looking at him, won’t. Auguste reaches out, taking his brother’s shoulders and shaking him till he looks up. His eyes are wide, rimmed with red. He swallows thickly.

“Don’t ever think that, Laurent,” Auguste says. “You’re--- I--”

He can’t bring himself to say it. There’s no way to adequately say what Laurent is to him. He doesn’t even understand it himself. He doesn’t have the words. He isn’t good at them like Laurent is. He never has been.

All he has is a truth he hopes Laurent can see in his eyes, and the strength to pull his brother close and crush him to his chest. Laurent’s hand curls over his shoulder and his brother buries his face into his chest. Auguste’s arms wrap tight around him, rocking them back and forth until the pain stops choking him.

“You can come to LA,” Auguste says. “I’ll introduce you to everyone. I’ll show you everything. Whatever you want, Laurent.”

Laurent pulls back. His eyes are distant, somehow. There’s a sadness in them that Auguste doesn’t understand.

“Ok,” Laurent says.

Auguste knows, down in his bones, that Laurent doesn’t believe him. But he doesn’t know what to say to change it, doesn’t know what words won’t just ring empty and hollow and false. He’s failed his brother with empty promises so many times before, he shouldn’t be surprised that it’s come to this.

It hurts all the same.

 

***

 

They head into town, after they get back from the beach. They need a few more supplies, and Laurent is desperate for a proper coffee. There isn’t much in the way of a cafe, but a small little nook off the main road is open. The building is hundreds of years old, small and cosy and peeling in places, but it’s quaint. Auguste remembers it, though it’s changed a lot since they were kids.

There’s not much else to do in town, so after they finish their coffees and buy their supplies, they go for a drive. The main road takes them along the cliffside for miles, right along the coastline. They fly, in Auguste’s fancy car, along ancient gravel and winding, nonsensical paths, nothing in front of them but the open sky and nothing on either side but the endless sea and rolling hills.

It’s beautiful, here. When they drive past a small village off the main town, lavish mansions lining the road in front of the shore, Auguste thinks about what it would be like to live here, in one of them. Peaceful. Boring, maybe, but peaceful. He thinks about endless afternoons and evenings, spent watching the waves lap against the shore, watching the sun streak breathtaking colours across the sky, before sinking into the sea. He thinks about Laurent, face turned towards the setting sun, hair lit up a rainbow, reflecting sunsets.

He wants it so much his chest feels tight. His mouth feels dry, and he has to swallow the thing rising in his throat back down.

 

***

 

They make it back to their campsite in time for the sunset. They sit together, in front of the fire, watching the sky light up like a canvas, before it turns slowly and steadily into a sea of stars. It’s just as breathtaking as the first time.

“I love it here,” Laurent says. “The world feels so different, somehow.”

He’s right. It does. Nothing feels quite like real life, everything feels so far removed from their respective realities that it must surely be a dream. He feels different here. He feels… free.

Laurent rolls his eyes, when Auguste breaks the wine out again. Still, he nicks it when Auguste isn’t looking, and tries to steal a handful of gulps before Auguste steals it back. Laurent spills it all down his mouth and throat, as he does, but he only giggles, wiping at the mess with the back of his hand.

“Stingy,” Laurent says.

“Thief,” Auguste shoots back.

He lets Laurent steal it again though, pretending not to notice. His brother’s cheeks flush such a beautiful red, when the wine hits him. His giggles are louder, his arms gesticulate wildly as he discusses a million inane things Auguste can hardly keep up with. He’s content to sit and listen, as Laurent talks and talks and talks.

If he can’t keep the smile off his face, Auguste is sure Laurent doesn’t notice.

It must have been hours, before Laurent finally falls silent. He turns to Auguste suddenly, with a gravity that brings Auguste back to attention, blinking away the haze the wine has clouded his mind with.

“Auguste,” Laurent says. “Do you--” He stops, frowning. Whatever he’d been about to say seems to surprise him. “Do you want to…” Again, he cuts himself off. This time, he doesn’t try again.

“Yeah?” Auguste prompts. For some reason, his heart is in his throat. His nails dig sharply into the log.

“I don’t know,” Laurent finally sighs. “Forget it.”

Auguste forces himself not to feel disappointed. He has no idea what Laurent meant to say anyway. He’s not going to push.

“I had fun today,” he says instead.

Laurent’s eyes light up. “Yeah?”

“It was nice, to come back here.” Auguste pulls the wine to himself, taking another long gulp. “It’s changed so much, but it’s still… It’s still the same.”

“Kinda like us,” Laurent says, with a sleepy half smile.

“You more than me,” Auguste chuckles. “I don’t think i’ve changed at all.”

Laurent shakes his head gravely. “You have,” he says. “You’ve changed so much. It scares me, sometimes.”

Auguste swallows thickly. “Why?”

“I feel like I’m losing you.” Laurent closes his eyes, tipping his face back towards the stars. “I have for years.”

It hurts, to hear it. It hurts more deeply than anything Laurent has ever said to him.

“I’m right here Laurent.”

“No you’re not,” Laurent says. “I want you to be, but you’re not.”

Auguste has no idea what that means. His brother must be drunker than he thought. When Laurent tries to reach for the wine again, Auguste cuts him off, moving the box away.

“You’ve had enough, Laurent,” he says.

Laurent laughs bitterly. “Yeah,” he says. “I have.”

 

***

 

Auguste goes to bed not long after that. He takes the wine with him again, practically nursing from it as he lies on his bed and tries not to obsessively ponder Laurent’s words. The warm buzz of the wine is somewhat comforting, making everything just that little bit fuzzier, every thought that much further away.

Laurent comes into the tent half an hour later.

By this time, Auguste has drunk a fair amount more of the wine. He’s taken off his shirt, leaving it somewhere near the entrance to find again tomorrow and is lying on his back on his bedroll, hands propped up behind his head, staring at the plastic ceiling above him.

The sound of the tent zipper makes him jump. He watches as Laurent pokes his head in, before the rest of him follows. He’s graceful, even at climbing into small camping tents. The worst of his drunkenness seems to have worn off.

“I brought more blankets,” Laurent says, reaching behind him to pull two large, thick woollen blankets into the tent behind him. He throws one at Auguste, who leaves it where it falls, draped heavily over him. “It’s gonna get fucking cold tonight.”

Auguste nods. For some reason, he can’t meet Laurent’s eyes.

Laurent shucks off his shoes, leaving them in the small tunnel-like tent opening, before crawling over the mess of blankets to his own side of the tent. He buries himself under them, curling up into a ball. Auguste can hear him shivering.

They lie in silence, for a while. Auguste tries to distract himself, but all he can focus on is the gentle, rhythmic sound of Laurent’s breathing. In the dark, he can make out the faint outline of his brother under the blankets, and he idly watches them rise and fall with the swell of his every breath.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Laurent asks, into the quiet.

Auguste grunts, half shrugging. He looks away.

“I was thinking we could go back to the cove again,” Laurent says.

Auguste pulls his box of wine back towards himself, sitting up just far enough to take another swallow. A trickle of liquid spills out of his mouth and splatters onto his chest. It’ll be sticky, in the morning. He doesn’t care. “Sure,” he says.

Laurent is quiet after that. Aside from the occasional sounds of waves hitting the distant shore, and the sporadic rustle of animals in the undergrowth, the world is utterly silent. It’s awkward. Loaded. Auguste feels like he should speak, diffuse the tension, but what sort of light hearted conversation can he conjure for this? So, he bites his tongue and closes his eyes, trying to chase down elusive sleep, and hopes, desperately, that Laurent is doing the same.

“We haven’t done this since Bermuda.”

Auguste feels his heart sink.

Laurent’s voice is a whisper, like he’s hesitant to disturb the silence. Auguste hears the rustle of his sheets as he rolls over. Auguste can feel his eyes on him.

Auguste only half grunts again, in reply. He raises his hands to his eyes, trying to rub the images that spring to his mind to _away._ Spots dance in his vision and he feels the world spin, whether wine or something else he can’t quite tell, but he doesn’t stop.

“Did you… like it. Bermuda?”

Auguste exhales. He lets his arms drop, lets them sprawl out above his head. He opens his eyes. “I’m not sure how I feel about Bermuda.”

He hears Laurent moving again, and can feel his heart in his throat as he feels his brother press up alongside him.

“Bullshit,” Laurent says.

Auguste can hardly breathe. “Lauren’t, don’t.”

“ _Fuck you.”_

Auguste’s next words die on his tongue, more out of surprise than anything. Slowly, he turns back towards Laurent, finding him so close now that he can make out some of his brother’s features in the dark. The expression on his face is utterly determined. He’s never seen Laurent look so serious.

“You know _exactly_ how you feel about Bermuda.”

Auguste’s heart is thundering in his chest, so loudly he’s sure that Laurent can hear it too. His whole body seems to shake with it. He swallows, throat sticking. “What do you want from me, Laurent?”

Laurent moves closer still. Auguste can feel him, every point of contact between them _burning_. “I want the truth.”

“The truth?” Auguste laughs bitterly, his face twisting. “The truth is that it should never have happened.”

His brother’s eyes narrow dangerously. “You might be able to convince yourself that it was a mistake. You might even be able to believe it, for a while.” He feels Laurent’s hand on his chest, palm flat, like he’s anchoring himself there, claiming that space as his. “But it’s more than that to me. It’s more than that to you, too. I know you. I _know_ you, brother.”

Bile rises in Auguste’s throat, a shame so hot and thick it threatens to choke him. He desperately wants to shut Laurent up, put his hand over his mouth and squeeze until not a single sound can escape, to stop him saying what he knows is coming because Auguste… Auguste _can’t._ He isn’t equipped to distance himself from this. He doesn’t have the strength, not like this. Not when Laurent’s hand is clutching him tight, leaning in so close Auguste can feel him everywhere. It _hurts._

 _“_ Don’t… _You don’t have to hide it from me anymore.”_

Laurent’s voice slides under his ribs like a knife and it’s all Auguste can do to keep breathing. His heart beats an agonising drum in his chest. Want, of everything he has ever denied himself, for the sake of Laurent, for the sake of them _both,_ rises like a tidal wave inside him. He can hardly breathe for it, for the awful, aching _need_ of it. It feels like being _drowned._

Quietly, painfully, Auguste forces himself to say, “It can never happen again, Laurent. It’s… It’s--”

“What, wrong? Disgusting?” Laurent scoffs. “If you think I give a shit about that, then you don’t know me at all.”

Laurent’s hand is moving, running across the sheets, travelling up, fingertips hooking over the edge of the blanket. Auguste knows what he’s going to do. He knows where this is going. He wants to reach out, grab Laurent’s hand, _stop him,_ but he’s frozen. His arms won’t move. His fingertips twitch but they, too, lie still.

In the end, Auguste isn’t a good enough man to stop him.

Laurent slips his hand under the sheets, palm pressed flush against Auguste’s bare chest. Laurent’s fingers are fucking _freezing,_ Auguste skin feels like it’s being burned where his brother touches him. Goosebumps rise all over him, setting his nerves on fire, every sensation like the cut of a knife. Laurent’s hand moves down. It rises and falls over the valley of Auguste’s chest, down the trail of his hard abdomen, right to the waistband of his slacks. It stops there, frozen fingertips ghosting along his sensitive belly, tormenting flesh that jumps under his touch.

Auguste cannot move, no matter how much he wants to squirm away. No matter how much he wants to press in for _more_ . He opens his mouth to speak, words of protestation clamoring uselessly on his tongue. Every shred of sense is telling him to stop, all his better judgement insists he put an end to this. It’s wrong, it’s disgusting, it’s _incest._ He’s silenced when Laurent bends down, so close to him now that he can feel his brother’s cool breath on his face. He can see Laurent’s eyes, burning in the dark. Looking at him-- looking _only_ at him, searching his face and finding every secret Auguste has ever tried to hide, laying it bare and open like its _nothing,_ like it belongs to Laurent, like it always has.

It almost hurts, to be the object of such obvious desire. It’s almost hurts, to know what it means, and, despite everything, want it anyway.

Laurent’s hand slips under his waistband.

Auguste’s head falls back, mouth slack, letting a breathy sound escape as his brother’s slender, freezing fingers wrap around his hot, hard cock. His back arches against the pleasure and the cold, trembling at the way it burrows under his skin and makes him _burn_ from within _._ His hips buck, chasing his brother’s hand, overwhelmed as Laurent rides the motion with him, before pressing him back down. Auguste’s hands clench into fists above his head, the only amount of restraint he can conjure; the temptation to reach down and just _take_ tearing him apart.

“Tell me to stop,” Laurent says, his voice almost taunting. “If i’m wrong, if that’s truly what you want, tell me to stop.”

Auguste tosses his head back as Laurent’s grip tightens. A ragged moan escapes him.

“Laurent--”

“You can’t, can you?” Laurent hisses, his fist tightens to the point of pain. “You think I don’t know you want this? I can see the way you look at me. I know you still think about it, I know you _dream_ about it, I know that it fucking _haunts_ you.”

“I--”

“Because it haunts me too you selfish fucking _bastard_ . _”_

Auguste groans, low and desperate as Laurent’s fist twists tight around the head of his cock before pulling back down, drawing the foreskin back over the head and exposing it to the cold before his thumb presses against it, digging cruelly into the slit, making Auguste whine pathetically as his hips betray him and thrust desperately into Laurent’s hand. Laurent pushes him against the bed hard, half on top of him now to keep him pinned, as he begins circling the crown of Auguste’s cock with his thumb, smearing pearly pre-come under his brutal touch.

Auguste’s body spasms, _burning_ with oversensitivity at Laurent’s freezing, merciless assault. He can’t tell whether Laurent wants to hurt or tease him; whether this is punishment or pleasure. He can’t tell which thought arouses him more.

He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip until the taste of copper hits his tongue. He can feel his resolve breaking, like a crack spreading across a pane of glass, a moment away from shattering completely.

“Laurent--”

“I waited for you,” Laurent’s voice is both rage and sorrow, and it breaks Auguste’s heart. “I _waited for you.”_

Auguste’s fists clench uselessly as Laurent’s hand stills, grip like iron around him. Then, slowly, it eases, leaving Auguste’s cock only resting in Laurent’s palm. The loss of his touch is more terrible than the want of it.

Auguste forces his eyes to open, forces himself to look at Laurent’s face, _really look_ , for what feels like the first time in his life.

“I needed you,” Laurent whispers, his eyes shiny with unshed tears, glinting like stars in the dark; voice so utterly small and vulnerable that Auguste can’t _stand it_. “Why do you always leave?”

There is no power on earth that could have stopped Auguste then.

He is moving before he could think, arms coming down, hands finding Laurent’s face, cradling it lovingly, gently, before pulling him closer. Laurent follows obediently, a breathless keen leaving his mouth as finally, _finally,_ their lips meet.

It feels like coming home.

It feels like the piece of him that’s been missing his entire life, this gaping void in his soul which no amount of fame or money or drugs has ever been able to fill, just disappears, vanishes, like it was never there at all. It feels like being made whole again. It’s so beautiful and so terrifying, so right and wrong and awful all at once that Auguste feels a terrible sob rise in his chest, feels tears wet his eyes and spill pathetically down his cheeks and he can’t help it, can’t stop it, because nothing in the universe could prevent him from kissing his brother now.

His heart beats like thunder in his ears as he presses harder, parting his lips, moaning as he feels Laurent respond sweetly, timidly, in kind. His brother’s palms are flat on his chest, holding himself up there, anchoring himself to Auguste like it’s the only thing stopping him from floating away.

“I’m sorry,” Auguste growls against Laurent’s lips, holding his face tighter. “I won’t leave you again.”

Laurent makes the most desperate sound into Auguste’s mouth and then he’s moving, shoving the sheets away entirely and climbing on top of Auguste, straddling his waist to get even closer. One of Auguste’s hands goes to his hip, to hold him there, keep him close, fingers digging harder into skin than necessary but he needs it, Laurent _needs it,_ he needs to see the bruises that will be there by morning in the shape of his fingertips.

“I don’t believe you,” Laurent snarls, nails raking across the skin of Auguste’s chest. “I don’t fucking believe anything you say.”

It cuts Auguste deep and he wants to stop, wants to promise Laurent the world if only he’ll believe him now, but he can’t. He’s had a taste of what has haunted him since beyond waking memory, and he’s _lost._

He cups Laurent’s neck and pulls him down harder, their kiss turning frenetic, desperate; Auguste sucks Laurent’s bottom lip into his mouth and nibbles hard, laving his tongue over the tiny indents his teeth leave behind. His cock twitches at the breathless moan that escapes Laurent, and he groans as Laurent bucks down against him. The friction hurts, but Auguste has to bite his bloody lip to stop himself from finishing at the sensation of it.

His arms wind around his brother, crushing him against his body until they’re flush, not an inch of space between them. Laurent moans again, breaking the kiss as his head falls back. Auguste latches onto his throat instead, sucking at the first place he can reach until he’s satisfied he’s left his mark there.

“Auguste, _please_.”

Laurent’s words unleash something in him, something dark and secret that has only ever been loosed once before. It’s like a switch being flipped. Like a barrier that Auguste hadn’t realised existed has been knocked down, spilling forth a flood that Auguste isn’t capable of stopping now.

Auguste sits up abruptly, crushing his brother to his chest to keep him from tipping back. He kisses whatever skin he can reach; Laurent’s neck, his jaw, his throat, the harsh lines of his collarbones down to the tip of his chest. When fabric prevents him from going further, Auguste seizes it harshly and shoves it up, up, until Laurent raises his arms and lets it slide off completely. His brother’s tousled hair falls around his shoulders, tickling Auguste’s cheek. Laurent’s arms wind around him, bare skin pressed to bare skin and it’s all Auguste can do not to push his brother down, climb on top of him and take every last damn thing Laurent has to give.

“Please,” Laurent pants into his mouth. “Please, I need you.”

Auguste runs a hand up Laurent’s back, marvelling at skin pale and smooth and soft under his touch, until he clasps a hold of Laurent’s hair. He tugs it, gently, just a taste of what more he can offer, if Laurent wishes it. His other hand he lets trail down, across the skin of Laurent’s belly, to his lap. He can feel the shape of his brother through his soft pants; he can feel the heat of him. It makes his head spin, his mouth wet with want.

As he lets his fingers slip under the waistband of Laurent’s pants, Laurent’s head falls back and the most beautiful, breathless moan escapes him, the sound hitching when Auguste’s rough hands finally close around him.

The feeling of holding his brother’s cock is the most arousing thing Auguste has ever experienced. He wants to make Laurent come like this, wants to stroke the velvet smooth skin of his gorgeous cock until it leaks his pleasure, until Laurent comes apart utterly, allowing Auguste every delicious sound his beautiful mouth is capable of making. He wants to let Laurent fuck into his fist until he is satisfied, to be nothing more than an instrument for his brother’s pleasure, to bring him to orgasm and let him spill his come all over Auguste’s chest, to be marked in that way to show Laurent that he is _his._ That he has always been his, even when he was too afraid to know it of himself.

He wants to be that, and more. He wants to be everything for Laurent.

Auguste closes his eyes against the sheer force of it. “I would give you the world, Laurent,” Auguste says, helplessly. “You only need to ask it.”

Laurent’s breath hitches. His arms wind around Auguste’s shoulders, holding him so tightly it’s hard to breathe. It doesn’t matter. Auguste doesn’t care. Not when Laurent presses his lips desperately against Auguste’s, not when he makes the most exquisite breathless whimpers into his mouth as Auguste’s hand continues to move on him.

He strokes Laurent slow and smooth, twisting his grip at the head, squeezing tight until Laurent’s thighs shake. He drinks up every sound of pleasure his brother makes, feeling it slide through him in waves of heat and arousal until he _aches._ He pulls Laurent against him in time with each stroke, moving them together in perfect, rolling symphony until he can no longer tell where Laurent ends and he begins; until it doesn’t matter, until nothing but the sweet, slow swell of pleasure washes over him like a wave on white sand, ebbing and flowing with each swell of the tide until he is breathless and undone by it.

“Auguste,” Laurent whimpers into his mouth. He’s shaking, only faintly, but the tremors make Auguste’s chest tight. “Please.”

Auguste squeezes him tighter, holds him closer, kisses him deeper, and Laurent _shatters._ When he comes Laurent’s entire body arches, taught as a bowstring, his face crumpling into the most exquisite expression of ecstasy. Auguste watches, enraptured, as his brother keens through it, pressing into Auguste like he wants to become a part of him, like he’s terrified of letting go. His come coats Auguste’s hand in sticky spurts, making a mess of the pants he’s still wearing, ropes of it reaching his stomach where they run down his taut, pale skin in sticky tracks.

When he finally crumples, breathless, against Auguste, Laurent whimpers. He’s sensitive, hips instinctively jerking away from Auguste’s tight grip around his spent cock, but Auguste doesn’t stop, not when the sight of Laurent coming for him is branded behind his eyelids, not when the feeling of his brother’s come cooling on his hand makes the fire in his gut blaze into an inferno, when he’s so close he can hardly breathe for it.

Just a little more, it’s all he needs.

It comes in the shape of his brother’s lips pressing against his neck, open mouthed and sloppy with lethargy, followed by the gentle graze of teeth. Auguste groans as the mounting pleasure peaks, as he feels his own orgasm overtake him. He can do nothing but hold Laurent against him, shaking with each wave of bliss that rushes through his body, fighting just to breathe as it seems to consume him.

When it ends, he doesn’t let go.

He comes back to himself with the sensation of Laurent’s hands carding through his hair, and the sound of his brother humming softly and sleepily under his breath. It’s such an intimate feeling, such a loving sound, Auguste can do nothing but bury his face against Laurent’s shoulder and swallow against the tightness in his throat.

He expects guilt to follow, as it always does. He waits for it.

It doesn’t come.

“Auguste,” Laurent says, after some time has passed like this. “You’re crushing me.”

Auguste loosens his hold on his brother immediately, letting Laurent sit back on his lap, a handspan between them. It’s terrifying, to lift his face and meet his brother’s eyes in the dark, but Auguste forces himself to do it. What’s the use in hiding anymore.

“Was… was it--”

“Yes,” Laurent says. His hand cups Auguste’s face, so tenderly it makes Auguste shiver. “You know it was.”

Relief, exquisite relief, washes over him. He feels the tension he hadn’t realised was in his shoulders release, and sighs so pitifully Laurent chuckles at him.

Laurent leans down, cupping his face in both hands, and kisses him. Auguste lets his hands fall to his brother’s waist, thumbs tracing patterns on Laurent’s smooth hips as he parts his lips and kisses back.

It’s such a novelty, to be allowed to do this. Auguste can’t believe it. It feels like a dream.

Laurent doesn’t pull away when he ends the kiss. He rests his forehead against Auguste’s instead and curls his fingers behind his ear, nails scratching softly at the sensitive skin there.

“I--” Auguste starts. His voice is thick, mouth suddenly dry. It’s an effort to force the words out. “Laurent, I--”

“I know.”

Auguste is unbearably grateful. He means it with his whole being, but the words are hard to say.

Laurent kisses his nose. “Me too.”

Auguste shifts them sideways, letting Laurent slip onto the bed beside him. His brother immediately curls against his side, pulling the blankets over them both before pillowing his head on Auguste’s chest, arm draped over his body possessively.

The night is freezing, but with Laurent so close, Auguste is warm.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to split the last big chapter into a couple, so I can get content out sooner. It's not done yet, I have no idea when it will be, but here's some more smut anyway 🤷♀️

He wakes up freezing everywhere except for his left side, where Laurent is still tightly curled against him. He blinks away sleep and smiles at the sight, heart skipping in his chest, tightening the arm around Laurent’s shoulders to pull his brother closer. Laurent makes a sleepy sound in protest of being moved, but settles against his chest happily.

He can feel the evidence of what they did last night on his body still; a looseness in his muscles that comes after pleasure, a warm fugue of bliss that accompanies it. Less pleasantly, he can feel tackiness against his side where Laurent’s come has dried on his skin, and the mess in his own trousers is distinctly uncomfortable, but Auguste doesn’t care. He holds Laurent, relishing in the warmth of him, the softness of him, tracing patterns with his fingertips on Laurent’s back.

He still can’t quite believe it. That they did what they had done. More than that; that Laurent had wanted to. That seems like such an impossible thing, Auguste has spent  _ so many years  _ telling himself that it was never going to happen, that it never should, that he is now entirely unprepared to deal with the fact that it  _ has.  _ That Laurent wants him in a way Auguste has wanted his brother since… well. Since before Bermuda. Long before.

He feels like he has been given something he doesn’t deserve. He knows he doesn’t. It’s a fucking miracle in of itself that Laurent is speaking to him, let alone… letting him touch him. Kiss him. Make him come. God, the memory of it is so visceral, Auguste bites his lip as warmth pools in his gut.

He wants to hold his brother like this every night, make him come with his hands, his mouth, more, if Laurent will let him. He wants this, all the time, for the rest of his life. A taste isn’t enough. Three days isn’t enough. A lifetime wouldn’t be enough.

But Auguste, for all his faults, isn’t an idiot. The fantasy is a warm, blazing fire in his chest, but the frozen tendrils of bitter reality have already started creeping in around the edges. There is no future for this. There is nothing but ruin.

Auguste could take it. If there is a price to pay for this, he would pay it tenfold, a million times over, for the privilege of having held his brother close and shared with him what they had shared even once. But he couldn’t do that to Laurent. Laurent deserves more than the cruelty this world has to offer him. Auguste will do whatever it takes to protect him from it. Even if it means letting him go.

But he doesn’t want to think about that. It hurts too much; a visceral pain that makes it hard to breathe. He won’t let what little time they have be tainted by the hopelessness of it. He can’t.

So, Auguste closes his eyes, holds Laurent close, and pretends, just for a little while, that they live in a different world, where things between them might have been different.  

 

***

Laurent groans as he comes to wakefulness, burying his face into Auguste’s chest to shield himself from the light streaming in through the thin tent canvas. Auguste chuckles. His brother has never been a morning person.

Laurent stops still suddenly, entire body freezing. 

Terror seizes Auguste in a flash of ice. His chest tightens, heart beating a painful tattoo. He feels the surety of last night fracture, cracks spreading across glass that was never thick to begin with. Did he-- Is Laurent-- does he--

Laurent looks up, blinking sleepily and meets Auguste’s eyes under his eyelashes. For a moment, his expression is unreadable, his eyes searching Auguste’s face. 

Auguste braces himself, waiting for the moment when Laurent pulls away in horror.

Instead, Laurent’s face splits into the most radiant smile Auguste has ever seen. His whole being seems to light up with it, joy so stark on every inch of his features that it steals Auguste’s breath.

“I thought it was a dream,” Laurent says, voice rough with sleep. He presses closer, half on top of Auguste, holding him tightly like he’s afraid Auguste will slip away. “You’re here.”

His smile is infectious. His happiness so frank and honest that Auguste can feel it seeping into him, feels the terror that had gripped him fizzle away into something so much warmer and brighter. He smiles at Laurent, he can’t help it.

“I’m here,” he says.

Laurent grins, almost boyishly. He pushes up, tilting his face, his desire clear. Auguste dips his head, meeting Laurent halfway, and steals his lips in a kiss. 

He holds his brother’s face, keeping him still as he pulls away. He wasn’t able to see him clearly last night, not in the dark, but he can see everything now, and Laurent isn’t holding anything back. His brother is an open book, and every page is filled with joy and  _ want. _

“Laurent,” he says. He kisses his brother again. “Fuck, Laurent.”

Laurent laughs, and he’s climbing on top of Auguste properly, straddling his waist to get closer. He deepens the kiss, tilting his head so that he can lick deviously into Auguste’s mouth, nipping his lips playfully. 

“You’re a shit in the mornings,” Auguste chuckles, as Laurent turns his face to bite at his jaw. 

“You love it,” Laurent says. He licks a line up to Auguste’s ear, before taking the lobe between his teeth. 

Auguste shivers. He plays with the hem of Laurent’s pants, pushing them down just over the swell of his ass. Laurent leans back to look at him, and his eyes are dark. Auguste’s stomach tightens, as his brother raises an eyebrow. Laurent always was a taunting little shit.

Auguste pushes his hands under the waistband and cups Laurent’s ass, using the grip to pull Laurent down against him. It feels so good; his ass is perfection, soft and firm under his hands, heavenly. He digs his fingers in, kneading the supple skin, and Laurent makes a breathy little sound, pushing back against Auguste’s grip. 

“Wait,” Laurent says, suddenly. 

Auguste is disappointed when Laurent pulls away, pushing himself back off Auguste and to the side. Though, when his brother starts to push his pants down over his hips, lifting his legs to slip the fabric off one leg at a time, that disappointment quickly turns into something else. 

Auguste watches, breath ragged, as Laurent undresses for him. 

Though he had held him in his hand only last night, Auguste has yet to actually lay eyes on his brother’s cock. It had been more than a year since the last time he had; though the sight had not been one he would be soon to forget, seeing it now is a wholly new experience. His brother is hard, his pink, slender erection jutting up against his stomach, nestled in a bed of smooth, golden curls. Laurent spreads his legs coyly as Auguste looks his fill, leaning back on his hands to show his brother everything. 

Auguste swallows. He meets Laurent’s eyes. “Come here,” he says. 

Laurent bites his lip, cocking his head. “Or what?”

Auguste growls. He surges forward, toppling Laurent onto his back and climbing on top of him. Laurent laughs breathlessly, hands coming up to Auguste’s shoulders. He turns his face, baring his neck, sighing when Auguste presses endless kisses across his skin. 

Laurent twines his legs around Auguste’s waist, pulling him down harder. He makes a noise in frustration when he’s met with the fabric of Auguste’s pants. “Off,” he demands.

Auguste kisses him once more, before he sits up on his knees. He meets Laurent’s eyes and finds  his little brother looking up at him with naked hunger. Slowly, deliberately, he pushes his pants down his hips. 

His cock springs free, already hard. Laurent’s eyes drop to it immediately, and Auguste feels a surge of lust as his brother licks his lips. Laurent reaches out, hand practically shaking in anticipation, and wraps his long, slender fingers around the shaft. 

Auguste groans as he watches his brother’s pale fingers wrap around him. They’re cold, less so than last night, but it sends shivers through him anyway, makes each nerve sing in delightful sensitivity.

“You’re so big,” Laurent says, almost under his breath. 

Animal satisfaction rises in Auguste’s chest. He thrusts his cock into his brother’s hand, groaning when Laurent’s grip tightens, cheeks flush. 

Auguste reaches out, threading his hands through Laurent’s soft hair, nails scratching at his brother’s scalp. Laurent looks up at him from under his eyelashes and, with a grin that makes Auguste’s cock throb, leans forward. The kiss Laurent presses to the tip is burning hot. He parts his lips, grazing the sensitive head with his soft lower lip, tongue darting out at the last second to taste it.

Auguste feels his control unravelling. His hands tighten in Laurent’s hair, guiding his brother closer. Laurent looks up at him, moaning as Auguste tugs his hair, and lets Auguste’s cock slip past the ring of his lips. 

Laurent’s mouth is hot and wet and warm, and Auguste can’t help but thrust into it, shuddering when Laurent’s lips close around him, sucking him hard. Laurent holds onto Auguste’s thighs to balance himself as he sinks down further.

Auguste lets him lick and suck and kiss at his cock, half fucks his mouth when he can no longer keep his hips still, until he can feel orgasm nearing. He groans low, eyelids fluttering, but he won’t close them; not when Laurent looks up at him, eyes shimmering with tears from where he has gagged around Auguste’s cock, the sight of his lips stretched so far around it making Auguste’s toes curl. It’s too much, it’s perfect, and his hands tighten viciously in Laurent’s hair when he comes, keeping his brother firmly on his cock as he empties himself into his perfect mouth. He can feel Laurent swallowing around him, hear the hum under his breath as he drinks it all down.  

When he’s finished, Auguste pulls Laurent off with a wet sound. A string of pearly come and saliva stretches between them, dangling from Laurent’s red, puffy lips obscenely. It snaps, joining the mess on Laurent’s chin. Auguste smears his thumb through it, pushing it back into Laurent’s mouth.

“Auguste,” Laurent complains. 

“Shhh.” Auguste leans down and replaces his thumb with his lips.

He pushes back on top of Laurent, resting his weight on his brother’s body to keep him pinned. Laurent writhes, hips bucking; Auguste can feel the hard press of his neglected cock against his stomach. He wants to taste it, so badly his mouth is watering.

He kisses a trail down Laurent’s body; sucking and licking marks into the skin possessively. When he reaches his brother’s cock he stops, for a moment, to look up at Laurent again. Laurent is almost beside himself, so desperate for something to alleviate his frustration that he’s practically mewling. Auguste feels so protective of him, the instinct to take care of him overpowering. 

He nuzzles his nose against the base of Laurent’s shaft, inhaling the musk of him where it’s strongest. “Has anyone ever sucked your cock, Laurent?” He asks. He almost doesn’t recognise the sound of his own voice; husky with arousal, possessive.

Laurent blushes, his eyes flicking down to Auguste and then away, self-consciously. He turns his face. “No,” he says.

Auguste growls. The thought of being the first to give Laurent this is overpowering.

“Good,” he says, and takes Laurent into his mouth.

It doesn’t take long to work Laurent up. Sheathing his teeth behind his lips, Auguste bobs his head up and down Laurent’s shaft, swallowing around it effortlessly, sucking hard to make Laurent’s thighs shake. His brother is tangy and salty in his mouth, the taste of it making hunger rise in Auguste’s belly. He presses Laurent’s hips down to the bedding when he tries to fuck up, seeking more, he forces Laurent to take only what he is given. 

Laurent writhes on the blankets, almost struggling against Auguste’s grip as he is overwhelmed, crying out his pleasure shamelessly. It doesn’t take long to bring him to the edge, but when Auguste feels his balls draw up tight he backs off, letting Laurent pop out of his mouth, cock bobbing wet and hard in the cold air. Laurent keens as he does, entire body as taut as a string, a hair's breadth away from coming only to be denied. His eyes are wet with tears, he looks down at Auguste with pure desperation.

Auguste does it to him twice more, before he lets him come. He can’t help himself; Laurent moans too beautifully, his face crumples with pleasure so exquisitely, Auguste can’t help but keep him there, suspended in that limbo of almost orgasm until his throat aches with the effort of sucking him. When he finally sinks down a final time, rolling Laurent’s balls gently with his hands as he sucks him hard, Laurent shatters. His back arches high off the bedroll as his thighs clamp down around Auguste’s face, keeping Auguste pinned as he empties into his mouth. It seems to be endless, his brother’s orgasm so drawn out that Auguste nearly runs out of air before he’s finished. 

When Laurent finally slumps back against the bedroll, Auguste gently laps at his softening cock, licking it clean until Laurent whines in sensitivity. Laurent reaches for him instead, arms moving sluggishly, and Auguste goes. He lets Laurent pull him down, and nestles into his brother’s warmth, winding his arms around his waist. 

It feels so good. It feels right.

Laurent’s hands card through his hair as they lie there together, his nails scratching behind Auguste’s ears where he knows Auguste likes it most. 

Sometime later, Laurent says, “I don’t want to get up. I just want to lie here all day.”

Auguste chuckles, nuzzling at Laurent’s chest and settling closer. “What, don’t want to see the cove again?”

Laurent makes a grumpy sound. “I want to stay here and fuck.”

Auguste kisses his breastbone, tracing one nipple with the tip of his finger. “We can fuck later. As much as you want,” he promises.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Satisfied, Laurent wriggles against him until Auguste turns his face up, far enough that Laurent can lean forward and kiss him. He licks the taste of himself out of Auguste’s mouth, biting on Auguste’s lower lip when he pulls away. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't love a good blowjob 😏


End file.
